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TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


BY 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


VOLUME I. 





BOSTON: 
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 





MDCCCXLII. 


Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1837, 
By Tue AMERICAN Stationers Company, 


in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 
PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOLLES, 


WASHINGTON STREET. 
. * 


CONTENTS. 


VOLUME I. 

Page. 
Ee RATS CCORIUPION, keys a cccwccretensceneccsnese I 
RO OC PROM G oes tne ng banc cede nese dssnencetes » 415 
PT OA TC ltd acne nccccessiiaeevccase 27 
Wee Pipers Diack Vella eis. cc cic ces caccecueses 43 
The May-Pole of Merry Mount, .......cesceccccccee 65 
Ree PON UPC IMEM y Sig kiucdiiglay. su sie. 606 viv cece de cep ace ce 85 
Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe, ..........2-eseeeeee 135 
PROPPING © PLATING cc cae wns gece cadv¥ensecns 148 
URES a ag ak divin Vane ewe on ol Rooks d seas a Hapa 3 . 169 
Pere Pd CNG CLOW PUP, oy. gos vs eec cece cannie 185 
PerRPO AG EUTOURCIOS cis cclas anc sawcccsccteccanveve 197 
The Prophetic Pictures, ............ Mes sidi nian erorejacos we 221 
DPRVRCEIWED, (ance enw s 0's 64000 SEO ea hoy ee ee oe 245 
ERR PCE IIO Fac ccs cn sanvssicigneescisdecs 257 
ine Hollow of the Three Hills, ....1......ccecsecses 200 
PPE OICMUNETER S DAY, cocks css cn cncnanandncnens 279 
Timer wemon of the Fountain, ......00ccccceccenvace 291 
RM CR erie ty yi oer dees onde decnnees 303 


Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment, ....... OE PORE eee 315 


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THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


VOL. I. 1 





THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


THERE was once a time when New England groaned 
under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs, than 
those threatened ones which brought on the Revolu- 
tion. James II., the bigoted successor of Charles the 
Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colo- 
nies, and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take 
away our liberties and endanger our religion. The 
administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely 
a single characteristic of tyranny: a Governor and 
Council, holding office from the King, and wholly in- 
dependent of the country ; laws made and taxes levied 
without concurrence of the people, immediate or by 
their representatives; the rights of private citizens 
violated, and the titles of all landed property declared 
void ; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on 
the press; and finally, disaffection overawed by the 
first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on 
our free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept 


4 THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


in sullen submission, by that filial love which had in- 
variably secured their allegiance to the mother coun- 
try, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Pro- 
tector, or popish Monarch. Till these evil times, how- 
ever, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and 
the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far more 
freedom, than is even yet the privilege of the native 
subjects of Great Britain. 

At length, a rumor reached our shores, that the 
Prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise, the 
' success of which would be the triumph of civil and 
religious rights and the salvation of New England. It’ 
was but a doubtful whisper ; it might be false, or the 
attempt might fail; and, in either case, the man, that 
stirred against King James, would lose his head. Still 
the intelligence produced a marked effect. The peo- 
ple smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold 
glances at their oppressors ; while, far and wide, there 
was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest 
signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish 
despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers re- 
solved to avert it by an imposing display of strength 
and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher 
measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund 
Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with 
wine, assembled the red-coats of the Governor’s 
Guard, and made their appearance in the streets of 
Boston. ‘The sun was near setting when the march 
commenced. 

The roll of the drum, at that unquiet crisis, seemed 
to go through the streets, less as the martial music of 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 5 


the soldiers, than as a muster-call to the inhabitants 
themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assem- 
bled in King-street, which was destined to be the scene, 
nearly a century afterwards, of another encounter be- 
tween the troops of Britain, and a people struggling 
against her tyranny. ‘Though more than sixty years 
had elapsed, since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of 
their descendants still showed the strong and sombre 
features of their character, perhaps more strikingly in 
such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. 
There was the sober garb, the general severity of mien, 
the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural 
forms of speech, and the confidence in Heaven’s bles- 
sing on a righteous cause, which would have marked 
a band of the original Puritans, when threatened by 
some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet 
time for the old spirit to be extinct ; since there were _ 
men in the street, that day, who had worshiped there 
beneath the trees, before a house was reared to the 
God, for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers 
of the Parliament were here too, smiling grimly at the 
thought, that their aged arms might strike another blow 
against the house of Stuart. Here also, were the 
veterans of King Philip’s war, who had burned vil- 
lages and slaughtered young and old, with pious 
fierceness, while the godly souls throughout the land 
were helping them with prayer. Several ministers 
were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all 
other mobs, regarded them with such reverence, as 
if there were sanctity in their very garments. These 
holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, 


6 THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


but not to disperse them. Meantime, the purpose of 
the Governor, in disturbing the peace of the town, at 
a period when the slightest commotion might throw 
the country into a ferment, was almost the universal 
subject of inquiry, and variously explained. 

‘ Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,’ cried 
some, ‘ because he knoweth that his time is short. All 
our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison! We 
shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King-street!’ 

Hereupon, the people of each parish gathered closer 
round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and 
assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a 
candidate for the highest honor of his profession, the 
crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied, at that 
period, that New England might have a John Rogers 
of her own, to take the place of that worthy in the 
Primer. 

‘The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new 
St. Bartholomew!’ cried others. ‘ We are to be 
massacred, man and male child!” 

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although 
the wiser class believed the Governor’s object some- 
what less atrocious. His predecessor under the old 
charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first 
settlers, was known to be in town. There were 
grounds for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros 
intended, at once, to strike terror, by a parade of mil- 
itary force, and to confound the opposite faction, by 
possessing himself of their chief. 

‘Stand firm for the old charter Governor!’ shouted 
the crowd, seizing upon the idea. *The good old 
Governor Bradstreet ! 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 7 


While this cry was at the loudest, the people were 
surprised by the well known figure of Governor Brad- 
street himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who ap- 
peared on the elevated steps of a door, and, with char- 
acteristic mildness, besought them to submit to the 
constituted authorities. 

‘My children,’ concluded this venerable person, 
‘do nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the 
welfare of New England, and expect patiently what 
the Lord will do in this matter!’ 

The event was soon to be decided. All this time, 
the roll of the drum had been approaching through 
Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations 
from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial 
footsteps, it burst into the street. A double rank of 
soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole 
breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks, 
and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires 
in the dusk. Their steady march was like the pro- 
gress of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over 
every thing in its way. Next, moving slowly, with a 
confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a 
party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being 
Sir Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier- 
like. ‘Those around him were his favorite council- 
lors, and the bitterest foes of New England. At his 
right hand rode Edward Randolph, our arch enemy, 
that ‘ blasted wretch,’ as Cotton Mather calls him, who 
achieved the downfall of our ancient government, and 
was followed with a sensible curse, through life and 
to his grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scat- 


8 THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


tering jests and mockery as he rode along. Dudley 
came behind, with a downcast look, dreading, as well 
he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, 
who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, 
among the oppressors of his native land. ‘The cap- 
tain of a frigate in the harbor, and two or three civil 
officers under the Crown, were also there. But the 
figure which most attracted the public eye, and stirred 
up the deepest feeling, was the Episcopal clergyman 
of King’s Chapel, riding haughtily among the magis- 
trates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representa- 
tive of prelacy and persecution, the union of church 
and state, and all those abominations which had driven 
the Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of 
soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear. 

The whole scene was a picture of the condition of 
New England, and its moral, the deformity of any 
government that does not grow out of the nature 
of things and the character of the people. On one 
side the religious multitude, with their sad visages and 
dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic 
rulers, with the high churchman in the midst, and 
here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnifi- 
cently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust au- 
thority, and scoffing at the universal groan. And the 
mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge 
the street with blood, showed the only means by which 
obedience could be secured. 

‘Oh! Lord of Hosts,’ cried a voice among the 
crowd, ‘ provide a Champion for thy people!’ 

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 9 


a herald’s cry, to introduce a remarkable personage. 
The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled 
together nearly at the extremity of the street, while 
the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its 
length. ‘The intervening space was empty —a paved 
solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a 
twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen 
the figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have 
emerged from among the people, and was walking by 
himself along the centre of the street, to confront the 
armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark 
cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, in the fashion of at 
least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his 
thigh, but a staff in his hand, to assist the tremulous 
gait of age. 

When at some distance from the multitude, the old 
man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique 
majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary 
beard that descended on his breast. He made a ges- 
ture at once of encouragement and warning, then 
turned again, and resumed his way. 

‘Who is this gray patriarch?’ asked the young 
men of their sires. 

‘Who is this venerable brother?’ asked the old 
men among themselves. 

But none could make reply. The fathers of the 
people, those of fourscore years and upwards, were 
disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget 
one of such evident authority, whom they must have 
known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop, 
and all the old Councillors, giving laws, and making 


10 THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


prayers, and leading them against the savage. The 
elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with 
locks as gray in their youth, as their own were now. 
And the young! How could he have passed so ut- 
terly from their memories — that hoary sire, the relic 
of long-departed times, whose awful benediction had 
surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads, in 
childhood ? | 

_ ¢Whence did he come? What is his purpose ? 
Who can this old man be?’ whispered the wondering 
crowd. 

Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, 
was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the 
street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and 
as the roll of their drum came full upon his ear, the 
old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the de- 
crepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, 
leaving him in gray, but unbroken dignity. Now, he 
marched onward with a warrior’s step, keeping time 
to the military music. Thus the aged form advanced 
on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and 
magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty 
yards remained between, the old man grasped his 
staff by the middle, and held it before him like a 
leader’s truncheon. 

‘Stand !? cried he. 

The eye, the face, and attitude of command; the 
solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to 
rule a host in the battle-field or be raised to God in 
prayer, were irresistible. At the old man’s word and 
outstretched arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at - 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 11 


once, and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous 
enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately 
form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so 
dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only be- 
long to some old champion of the righteous cause, 
whom the oppressor’s drum had summoned from his 
grave. ‘They raised a shout of awe and exultation, 
and looked for the deliverance of New England. 

The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, per- 
ceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, 
rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed 
their snorting and affrighted horses right against the 
hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, 
but glancing his severe eye round the group, which 
half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir 
Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the 
dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the 
Governor and Council, with soldiers at their back, 
representing the whole power and authority of the 
Crown, had no alternative but obedience. 

‘What does this old fellow here?’ cried Edward 
Randolph, fiercely. ‘On, Sir Edmund! Bid the 
soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice 
that you give all his countrymen — to stand aside or 
be trampled on!’ 

‘Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grand- 
sire,’ said Bullivant, laughing, ‘See you not, he is 
some old round-heaced dignitary, who’ hath lain 
asleep these thirty years, and knows nothing of the 
change of times? Doubtless, he thinks to put us 
down with a proclamation in Old Noll’s name!’ 


‘Pa THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


‘Are you mad, old man ?” demanded Sir Edmund 
Andros, in loud and harsh tones. ‘How dare you 
stay the march of King James’s Governor ?’ 

‘IT have staid the march of a King himself, ere 
now,’ replied the gray figure, with stern composure. 
‘T am here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an op- 
pressed: people hath disturbed me in my secret place ; 
and beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it 
was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth, in 
the good old cause of his Saints. And what speak 
ye of James? There is no longer a popish tyrant 
on the throne of England, and by tomorrow noon, 
his name shall be a by-word in this very street, where 
ye would make it a word of terror. Back, thou that 
wast a Governor, back! With this night thy power 
is ended — tomorrow, the prison ! — back, lest I fore- 
tell the scaffold !” 

The people had been drawing nearer and nearer, 
and drinking in the words of their champion, who 
spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed 
to converse, except with the dead of many years ago. 
But his voice stirred their souls. ‘They confronted 
the soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to 
convert the very stones of the street into deadly 
weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man ; 
then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude, 
and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, so 
difficult to kindle or to quench ; and again he fixed 
his gaze on the aged form, which stood obscurely in 
an open space, where neither friend nor foe had thrust 
himself. What were his thoughts, he uttered no word 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 13 


which might discover. But whether the oppressor 
were overawed by the Gray Champion’s look, or per- 
ceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the peo- 
ple, it is certain that he gave back, and ordered his 
soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. 
Before another sunset, the Governor, and all that 
rode so proudly with him, were prisoners, and long 
ere it was known that James had abdicated, King 
William was proclaimed throughout New England. 

But where was the Gray Champion? Some re- 
ported, that when the troops had gone from King- 
street and the people were thronging tumultuously in 
their rear, Bradstreet, the aged Governor, was seen 
to embrace a form more aged than his own. Others 
soberly affirmed, that while they marveled at the ven- 
erable grandeur of his aspect, the old man had faded 
from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twi- 
light, till, where he stood, there was an empty space. 
But all agreed, that the hoary shape was gone. The 
men of that generation watched for his re-appearance, 
in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, 
nor knew when his funeral passed, nor where his 
gravestone was. | 

And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his 
name might be found in the records of that stern 
Court of Justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty 
for the age, but glorious in all after times, for its hum- 
bling lesson to the monarch and its high example to _ 
the subject. I have heard, that, whenever the de- 
scendants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of 
their sires, the old man appears again. Wheneighty 


14 THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


years had passed, he walked once more in King 
street. Five years later, in the twilight of an April 
morning, he stood on the green, beside the meeting 
house, at Lexington, where now the obelisk of granite, 
with a slab of slate inlaid, commemorates the first 
fallen of the Revolution. And when our fathers were 
toiling at the breastwork on Bunker’s Hill, all through 
that night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, 
long may it be, ere he comes again! His hour is one 
of darkness, and adversity, and peril. But should 
domestic tyranny oppress us, or the invader’s step 
pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come ; 
for he is the type of New England’s hereditary spirit: 
and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must 
ever be the pledge, that New England’s sons will 
vindicate their ancestry. 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 





SUNDAY AT HOME. 


Every Sabbath morning, in the summer time, J thrust. 
back the curtain, to watch the sunrise stealing down 
a steeple, which stands opposite my chamber window. 
First, the weathercock begins to flash ; then, a fainter 
lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it en- 
croaches on the tower, and causes the index of the 
dial to glisten like gold, as it points to the gilded fig- 
ure of the hour. Now, the loftiest window gleams, 
and now the lower. The carved frame-work of the 
portal is marked strongly out. At length, the morn- 
ing glory, in its descent from Heaven, comes down 
the stone steps, one by one; and there stands the 
steeple, glowing with fresh radiance, while the shades 
of twilight still hide themselves among the nooks of 
the adjacent buildings. Methinks, though the same 
sun brightens it, every fair morning, yet the steeple 
has a peculiar robe of brightness for the Sabbath. 

By dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts 

VOL. 1. 2 


18 SUNDAY AT HOME. 


an attachment for the edifice. We naturally per- | 
sonify it, and conceive its massy walls, and its dim 
emptiness, to be instinct with a calm, and meditative, 
and somewhat melancholy spirit. But the steeple 
stands foremost, in our thoughts, as well as locally. 
It impresses us as a giant, with a mind comprehen- 
sive and discriminating enough to care for the great 
and small concerns of all the town. Hourly, while 
it speaks a moral to the few that think, it reminds 
thousands of busy individuals of their separate and 
most secret affairs. It is the steeple, too, that flings 
abroad the hurried and irregular accents of general 
alarm; neither have gladness and festivity found a 
better utterance, than by its tongue; and when the 
dead are slowly passing to their home, the steeple has 
a melancholy voice to bid them welcome. Yet, in 
spite of this connexion with human interests, what a 
moral loneliness, on week days, broods round about 
its stately height! It has no kindred with the houses 
above which it towers ; it looks down into the narrow 
thoroughfare, the lonelier, because the crowd are 
elbowing their passage at its base. A. glance at the 
body of the church deepens thisimpression. Within, 
by the light of distant windows, amid refracted shad- 
ows, we discern the vacant pews and empty galleries, 
the silent organ, the voiceless pulpit, and the clock, 
which tells to solitude how time is passing. ‘Time — 
where man lives not — what is it but eternity ? And 
in the church, we might suppose, are garnered up, 
throughout the week, all thoughts and feelings that 
have reference to eternity, until the holy day comes 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 19 


round again, to let them forth. Might not, then, its 
more appropriate site be in the outskirts of the town, 
with space for old trees to wave around it, and throw 
their solemn shadows over a quiet green? We will 
say more of this, hereafter. 

But, on the Sabbath, I watch the earliest sunshine, 
and fancy that a holier brightness marks the day, 
when there shall be no buzz of voices on the Ex- 
change, nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd, nor busi- 
ness, anywhere but at church. Many have fancied 
so. For my own part, whether I see it scattered 
down among tangled woods, or beaming broad across 
the fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or 
tracing out the figure of the casement on my chamber 
floor, still I recognise the Sabbath sunshine. And 
ever let me recognise it! Some illusions, and this 
among them, are the shadows of great truths. Doubts 
may flit around me, or seem to close their evil wings, 
and settle down; but, so long as I imagine that the 
earth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its 
sanctity, on the Sabbath — while that blessed sunshine 
lives within me — never can my soul have lost the in- 
stinct of its faith. If it have gone astray, it will re- 
turn again. 

I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths, from morn- 
ing till night, behind the curtain of my open window. 
Are they spent amiss? Every spot, so near the 
church as to be visited by the circling shadow of the 
steeple, should be deemed consecrated ground, to-day. 
With stronger truth be it said, that a devout heart may 
consecrate a den of thieves, as an evil one may con- 


20 SUNDAY AT HOME. 


vert a temple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has 
not such holy, nor, I would fain trust, such impious 
potency. It must suffice, that, though my form be 
absent, my inner man goes constantly to church, while 
many, whose bodily presence fills the accustomed 
seats, have left their souls at home. But I am there, 
even before my friend, the sexton. At length, he 
comes —a man of kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark 
gray clothes, and hair of the same mixture — he 
comes, and applies his key to the wide portal. Now, 
my thoughts may go in among the dusty pews, or as- 
cend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth 
again, to enjoy the music of the bell. How glad, yet 
solemn too! All the steeples in town are talking to- 
gether, aloft in the sunny air, and rejoicing among them- 
selves, while their spires point heavenward. Mean- 
time, here are the children assembling to the Sabbath- 
school, which is kept somewhere within the church. 
Often, while looking at the arched portal, I have been 
gladdened by the sight of a score of these little girls 
and boys, in pink, blue, yellow, and crimson frocks, 
bursting suddenly forth into the sunshine, like a swarm 
of gay butterflies that had been shut up in the solemn 
gloom. OrlI might compare them to cherubs, haunt- 
ing that holy place. 

About a quarter of an hour before the second ring- 
ing of the bell, individuals of the congregation begin 
to appear. The earliest is invariably an old woman 
in black, whose bent frame and rounded shoulders 
are evidently laden with some heavy affliction, which 
she is eager to rest upon the altar. Would that the 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 21 


Sabbath came twice as often, for the sake of that sor- 
rowful old soul! There is an elderly man, also, who 
arrives in good season, and leans against the corner 
of the tower, just within the line of its shadow, look- 
ing downward with a darksome brow. I sometimes 
fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two. 
After these, others drop in singly, and by twos and 
threes, either disappearing through the door-way, or 
taking their stand in its vicinity. At last, and always 
with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the 
steeple overhead, and throws out an irregular clangor, 
jarring the tower to its foundation. As if there were 
magic in the sound, the sidewalks of the street, both 
up and down along, are immediately thronged with 
two long lines of people, all converging hitherward, 
and streaming into the church. Perhaps the far-off 
roar of a coach draws nearer —a deeper thunder by 
its contrast with the surrounding stillness — until it 
sets down the wealthy worshipers at the portal, among 
their humblest brethren. Beyond that entrance, in 
theory at least, there are no distinctions of earthly 
rank; nor, indeed, by the goodly apparel which is 
flaunting in the sun, would there seem to be such, on 
the hither side. Those pretty girls! Why will they 
disturb my pious meditations! Of all days in the 
week, they should strive to look least fascinating on 
the Sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal love- 
liness, as if to rival the blessed angels, and keep our. 
thoughts from heaven. Were I the minister himself, 
I must needs look. One girl is white muslin from 
the waist upwards, and black silk downwards to her 


22 SUNDAY AT HOME. 


slippers ; a second, blushes from top-knot to shoe-tie, 
one universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading 
yellow, as if she had made a garment of the sun- 
shine. The greater part, however, have adopted a 
milder cheerfulness of hue. Their veils, especially 
when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the 
general effect, and make them appear like airy phan- 
toms, as they flit up the steps, and vanish into the 
sombre door-way. Nearly all—though it is very 
strange that I should know it— wear white stockings, 
white as snow, and neat slippers, laced crosswise with 
black ribbon, pretty high above the ankles. A white 
stocking is infinitely more effective than a black one. 

Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in se- 
vere simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote 
his office. His aspect claims my reverence, but can- 
not win my love. Were I to picture Saint Peter, 
keeping fast the gate of Heaven, and frowning, more 
stern than pitiful, on the wretched applicants, that 
face should be my study. By middle age, or sooner, 
the creed has generally wrought upon the heart, or 
been attempered by it. As the minister passes into 
the church, the bell holds its iron tongue, and all the 
low murmur of the congregation dies away. The 
gray sexton looks up and down the street, and then at 
my window curtain, where, through the small peep- 
hole, I half fancy that he has caught my eye. Now, 
every loiterer has gone in, and the street lies asleep 
in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes 
over me, and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected 
privileges and duties. Oh, I ought to have gone to 


+’ 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 23 


church! The bustle of the rising congregation 
reaches my ears. They are standing up to pray. 
Could I bring my heart into unison with those who 
are praying in yonder church, and lift it heavenward, 
with a fervor of supplication, but no distinct request, 
would not that be the safest kind of prayer? ‘ Lord, 
look down upon me in mercy!’ With that sentiment 
gushing from my soul, might I not leave all the rest 
to Him? 

Hark! the hymn. This, at least, is a portion of 
the service which I can enjoy better than if I sat 
within the walls, where the full choir, and the mas- 
sive melody of the organ would fall with a weight 
upon me. At this distance, it thrills through my 
frame, and plays upon my heart-strings, with a pleas- 
ure both of the sense and spirit. Heaven be praised, 
I know nothing of music, as a science ; and the 
most elaborate harmonies, if they please me, please 
as simply as anurse’s lullaby. The strain has ceased, 
but prolongs itself in my mind, with fanciful echoes, 
till I start from my reverie, and find that the sermon 
has commenced. It is my misfortune seldom to 
fructify, in a regular way, by any but printed sermons. 
The first strong idea, which the preacher utters, gives 
birth to a train of thought, and leads me onward, 
step by step, quite out of hearing of the good man’s 
voice, unless he be indeed a son of thunder. At my 
open window, catching now and then a sentence of 
the ‘ parson’s saw,’ I am as well situated as at the foot 
of the pulpit stairs. The broken and scattered frag- 
ments of this one discourse will be the texts of many 


x 
r 


24 SUNDAY AT HOME. 


sermons, preached by those colleague pastors — col- 
leagues, but often disputants— my Mind and Heart. 
The former pretends to be a scholar, and perplexes 
me with doctrinal points ; the latter takes me on the 
score of feeling ; and both, like several other preach- 
ers, spend their strength to very little purpose. 1, 

their sole auditor, cannot always understand them. 
Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold 
me still behind my curtain, just before the close of 
the afternoon service. The hour-hand on the dial 
has passed beyond four o’clock. ‘The declining sun 
is hidden behind the steeple, and throws its shadow 
straight across the street, so that my chamber is dark- 
ened, as with a cloud. Around the church door, all 
is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity, beyond 
the threshold. A commotion is heard. The seats 
are slammed down, and the pew doors thrown back — 
a multitude of feet are trampling along the unseen 
aisles— and the congregation bursts suddenly through 
the portal. Foremost, scampers a rabble of boys, be- 
hind whom moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown 
men, and lastly, a crowd of females, with young 
children, and a few scattered husbands. ‘This instan- 
taneous outbreak of life into loneliness is one of the 
pleasantest scenes of the day. Some of the good 
_ people are rubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that 
they have been wrapt, as it, were, in a sort of holy 
trance, by the fervor of their devotion. There is a 
young man, a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is 
always to flourish a white handkerchief, and brush 
the seat of a tight pair of black silk pantaloons, which 
Fa 


- 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 25 


shine as if varnished. They must have been made 
of the stuff called ‘everlasting, or perhaps of the 
same piece as Christian’s garments in the Pilgrim’s 
Progress, for he put them on two summers ago, and 
has not yet worn the gloss off. I have taken a great 
liking to those black silk pantaloons. But, now, 
with nods and greetings among friends, each matron 
takes her husband’s arm, and paces gravely home- 
ward, while the girls also flutter away, after arranging 
sunset walks with their favored bachelors. The Sab- 
bath eve is the eve of love. At length, the whole 
congregation is dispersed. No; here, with faces as 
glossy as black satin, come two sable ladies and a sa- 
ble gentleman, and _ close in their rear, the minister, 
who softens his severe visage, and bestows a kind 
word on each. Poor souls! To them, the most cap- 
tivating picture of bliss in Heaven, is —‘'There we 
shall be white !’ 

All is solitude again. But, hark!—a broken 
warbling of voices, and now, attuning its grandeur to 
their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ. Who 
are the choristers? Let me dream that the angels, 
who came down from Heaven, this blessed. morn, to 
blend themselves with the worship of the truly good, 
are playing and singing their farewell to the earth. 
On the wings of that rich melody, they were borne 
upward. ; 

This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. 
A few of the singing men and singing women had 
lingered behind their fellows, and raised their voices 
fitfully, and blew a careless note upon the organ. 


e 


- - 
* hy % 


26 SUNDAY AT HOME. 


Yet, it lifted my soul higher than all their former 
strains. They are gone —the sons and daughters of 
music —— and the gray sexton is just closing the por- 
tal. For six days more, there will be no face of man 
in the pews, and aisles, and galleries, nor a voice in the 
pulpit, nor music in the choir. Was it worth while 
to rear this massive edifice, to be a desert in the heart 
of the town, and populous only for a few hours of 
each seventh day ? Oh! but the church is a symbol 
of religion. May its site, which was consecrated on 
the day when the first tree was felled, be kept holy 
for ever, a spot of solitude and peace, amid the 
trouble and vanity of our week-day world! ‘There 
is a moral, and a religion too, even in the silent walls. 
And, may the steeple still point heavenward, and be 
decked with the hallowed sunshine of the Sabbath 
morn ! 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 





THE WEDDING KNELL. 





THERE is a certain church in the city of New York, 
which I have always regarded with peculiar interest, 
on account of a marriage there solemnized, under 
very singular circumstances, in my grandmother’s 
girlhood. That venerable lady chanced to be a spec- 
tator of the scene, and ever after made it her favorite 
narrative. Whether the edifice now standing on the 
same site be the identical one to which she referred, 
I am not antiquarian enough to know ; nor would it 
be worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agree- 
able error, by reading the date of its erection on the 
tablet over the door. It is a stately church, surround- 
ed by an inclosure of the loveliest green, within which 
appear urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of mon- 
umental marble, the tributes of private affection, or 
more splendid memorials of historic dust. With such 
a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath 


30 THE WEDDING KNELL. 


its tower, one would be willing to connect some le- 
gendary interest. 

The marriage might be considered as the result of 
an early engagement, though there had been two in- 
termediate weddings on the lady’s part, and forty 
years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty- 
five, Mr. Ellenwood was a shy, but not quite a se- 
cluded man; selfish, like all men who brood over 
their own hearts, yet manifesting, on rare occasions, 
a vein of generous sentiment; a scholar, throughout 
life, though always an indolent one, because his studies 
had no definite object, either of public advantage or 
personal ambition ; a gentleman, high-bred and fas- 
tidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a consid- 
erable relaxation, in his behalf, of the common rules 
of society. In truth, there were so many anomalies 
in his character, and though shrinking with diseased 
sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality 
so often to become the topie of the day, by some 
wild eccentricity of conduct, that people searched his 
lineage for an hereditary taint of insanity. But there 
was no need of this. His caprices had their origin 
in a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing 
purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon themselves, 
for want of other food. If he were mad, it was the 
consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and 
abortive life. | 

The widow was as complete a contrast to her third 
bridegroom, in every thing but age, as can well be 
conceived. Compelled to relinquish her first engage- 
ment, she had been united to a man of twice her own 


THE WEDDING KNELL. ol 


years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and 
by whose death she was left in possession of a splen- 
did fortune. A southern gentleman considerably 
younger than herself, succeeded to her hand, and 
carried her to Charleston, where, after many uncom- 
fortable years, she found herself again a widow. It 
would have been singular, if any uncommon delicacy 
of feeling had survived through such a life as Mrs. 
Dabney’s ; it could not but be crushed and killed by 
her early disappointment, the cold duty of her first 
marriage, the dislocation of: the heart’s_ principles, 
consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of 
her southern husband, which had inevitably driven 
her to connect the idea of his death with that of her 
comfort. To be brief, she was that wisest, but un- 
loveliest variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing 
troubles of the heart with equanimity, dispensing with 
all that should have been her happiness, and making 
the best of what remained. Sage in most matters, 
the widow was perhaps the more amiable, for the one 
frailty that made her ridiculous. Being childless, she 
could not remain beautiful by proxy, in the person of 
a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old and 
ugly, on any consideration ; she struggled with Time, 
and held fast her roses in spite of him, till the ven- 
erable thief appeared to have relinquished the spoil, 
as not worth the trouble of acquiring it. 

The approaching marriage of this woman of the 
world, with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellen- 
wood, was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney’s return 
io her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper 


a2 THE WEDDING KNELL. 


ones, seemed to concur, in supposing that the lady 
must have borne no inactive part, in arranging the 
affair; there were considerations of expediency, 
which she would be far more likely to appreciate 
than Mr. Ellenwood ; and there was just-the specious 
phantom of sentiment and romance, in this late union 
of two early lovers, which sometimes makes a fool 
of a woman, who has lost her true feelings among 
the accidents of life. All the wonder was, how the 
gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom, and 
agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been 
induced to take a measure, at once so prudent and so 
laughable. But while people talked, the wedding 
day arrived. The ceremony was to be solemnized 
according to the Episcopalian forms, and in open 
church, with a degree of publicity that attracted 
many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the 
galleries, and the pews near the altar and along the 
broad aisle. It had been arranged, or possibly it was 
the custom of the day, that the parties should proceed 
separately to church. By some accident, the bride- 
groom was a little less punctual than the widow and 
her bridal attendants ; with whose arrival, after this 
tedious, but necessary preface, the action of our tale 
may be said to commence. 

The clumsy wheels of several old fashioned coaches 
were heard, and the gentlemen and ladies, composing 
the bridal party, came through the church door, with 
the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. 
The whole group, except the principal figure, was 
made up of youth and gaiety. As they streamed up 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 30 


the broad aisle; while the pews and pillars seemed to 
brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as 
if they mistook the church for a ball-room, and were 
ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant 
was the spectacle, that few took notice of a singular 
phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the 
moment when the bride’s foot touched the threshold, 
the bell swung heavily in the tower above her, and 
sent forth its deepest knell. The vibrations died 
away and returned, with prolonged solemnity, as she 
entered the body of the church. 

‘Good heavens! what an omen,’ whispered a 
young lady to her lover. 

‘Qn my honor,’ replied the gentleman, ‘I believe 
the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. 
What has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest 
Julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring 
out its merriest peal. It has only a funeral knell for 
her.’ 

The bride, and most of her company, had been too 
much occupied with the bustle of entrance, to hear 
the first boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect 
on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. 
They therefore continued to advance, with undimin- 
ished gaiety. The gorgeous dresses of the time, the 
crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop- 
petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery, 
the buckles, canes and swords, all displayed to the 
best advantage on persons suited to such finery, made 
the group appear more like a bright colored picture, 
‘than any thing real. But by what perversity of taste, 

VOL. I. 3 


34. THE WEDDING KNELL. 


had the artist represented his principal figure as so 
wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her 
out in the brightest splendor of attire, as if the love- 
liest maiden had suddenly withered into age, and be- 
come a moral to the beautiful around her! On they 
went, however, and had glittered along about a third 
of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed 
to fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and 
obscuring the bright pageant, till it shone forth again 
as from a mist. 

This time the party wavered, stopt, and huddled 
closer together, while a slight scream was heard from 
some of the ladies, and a confused whispering among 
the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they might 
have been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of 
flowers, suddenly shaken by a puff of wind, which 
threatened to scatter the leaves of an old, brown, 
withered rose, on the same stalk with two dewy buds ; 
such being the emblem of the widow between her 
fair young bridemaids. But her heroism was admi- 
rable. She had started with an irrepressible shudder, 
as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her 
heart ; then, recovering herself, while her attendants 
were yet in dismay, she took the lead, and paced 
calmly up the aisle. The bell continued to swing, 
strike, and vibrate, with the same doleful regularity, 
as when a corpse is on its way to the tomb. 

‘My young friends here have their nerves a little 
shaken,’ said the widow, with a smile, to the clergy- 
man at the altar. ‘ But somany weddings have been 
ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 30D 


turned out unhappily, that I shall hope for better for- 
tune under such different auspices.’ 

‘ Madam,’ answered the rector, in great perplexity, 
‘this strange occurrence brings to my mind a mar- 
riage sermon of the famous Bishop Taylor, wherein 
he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future 
woe, that, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, 
he seems to hang the bridal chamber in black, and 
cut the wedding garment out of a coffin pall. And 
it has been the custom of divers nations to infuse 
something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies ; 
so to keep death in mind, while contracting that en- 
gagement which is life’s chiefest business. ‘Thus we 
may draw a sad but profitable moral from this funeral 
knell.’ | 

But, though the clergyman might have given his 
moral even a keener point, he did not fail to despatch 
an attendant to inquire into the mystery, and stop 
those sounds, so dismally appropriate to such a mar- 
riage. A brief space elapsed, during which, the 
silence was broken only by whispers, and a few sup- 
pressed titterings, among the wedding party and the 
spectators, who, after the first shock, were disposed 
to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. 
The young have less charity for aged follies, than 
the old for those of youth. The widow’s glance was 
observed to wander, for an instant, towards a window 
of the church, as if searching for the time-worn mar- 
ble that she had dedicated to her first husband; then 
her eyelids dropt over their faded orbs, and her 
thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave. 


36 THE WEDDING KNELL. 


Two buried men, with a voice at her ear, and a cry 
afar off, were calling her to lie down beside them. 
Perhaps, with momentary truth of feeling, she thought 
how. much happier had been her fate, if, after years 
of bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral, 
and she were followed to the grave by the old affec- 
tion of her earliest lover, long her husband. But 
why had she returned to him, when their cold hearts 
shrank from each other’s embrace ? 

Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully, that the 
sunshine seemed to fade in the air. A whisper, com- 
municated from those who stood nearest the windows, 
now spread through the church; a hearse, with a 
train of several coaches, was creeping along the street, 
conveying some dead man to the church-yard, while 
the bride awaited a living one at the altar. Immedi- 
ately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his 
friends were heard at the door. The widow looked 
down the aisle, and clenched the arm of one of her 
bridemaids in her bony hand, with such unconscious 
violence, that the fair girl trembled. 

‘You frighten me, my dear madam!” cried she. 
‘For heaven’s.sake, what is the matter ? ’ 

‘Nothing, my dear, nothing,’ said the widow ; then, 
whispering close to her ear,—‘ There is a foolish 
fancy, that I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my 
bridegroom to come into the church, with my two - 
first husbands for groomsmen! ’ 

‘Look, look!’ screamed the bridemaid. ‘ What is 
here? The funeral!’ 

As she spoke, a dark procession paced into the 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 37 


church. First came an old man and woman, like 
chief mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot 
in the deepest black, all but their pale features and 
hoary hair; he leaning on a staff, and supporting her 
decrepit form with his nerveless arm. Behind, ap- 
peared another, and another pair, as aged, as black; 
and mournful as the first. As they drew near, the 
widow recognised in every face some trait of former 
friends, long forgotten, but now returning, as if from 
their old graves, to warn her to prepare a shroud ; or, 
with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their 
wrinkles and infirmity, and claim her as their com- 
panion by the tokens of her own decay. Many a 
merry night had she danced with them, in youth. 
And now, in joyless age, she felt that some withered 
partner should request her hand, and all unite, ina 
dance of death, to the music of the funeral bell. 

While these aged mourners were passing up the 
aisle, it was observed, that, from pew to pew, the 
spectators shuddered with irrepressible awe, as some 
object, hitherto concealed by the intervening figures, 
came full in sight. Many turned away their faces; 
others kept a fixed and rigid stare; and a young girl 
giggled hysterically, and fainted with the laughter on 
her lips. When the spectral procession approached 
the altar, each couple separated, and slowly diverged, 
till, in the centre, appeared a form, that had been 
worthily ushered in with all this gloomy pomp, the 
death-knell, and the funeral. It was the bridegroom 
in his shroud! 

No garb but that of the grave could have befitted 


38 THE WEDDING KNELL. 


such a death-like aspect; the eyes, indeed, had the 
wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed 
in the stern calmness which old men wear in the 
coffin. The corpse stood motionless, but addressed the 
widow in accents that seemed to melt into the clang 
of the bell, which fell heavily on the air while he 
spoke. 

‘Come, my bride!’ said those pale lips, ‘The 
hearse is ready. ‘The sexton stands waiting for us at 
the door of the tomb. Let us be married; and then 
to our coffins !’ 

How shall the widow’s horror be represented! It 
gave her the ghastliness of a dead man’s bride. Her 
youthful friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourn- 
ers, the shrouded bridegroom, and herself; the whole 
scene expressed, by the strongest imagery, the vain 
struggle of the gilded vanities of this world, when 
opposed to age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. The 
awe-struck silence was first broken by the clergyman. 

‘Mr. Ellenwood,’ said he, soothingly, yet with 
somewhat of authority, ‘you are not well. Your 
mind has been agitated by the unusual circumstances 
in which you are placed. The ceremony must be 
deferred. As an old friend, let me entreat you to 
return home.’ $e. 

‘Home! yes; but not without my bride,’ answered 
he, in the same hollow accents. ‘You deem this 
mockery; perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my 
aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery — 
had I forced my withered lips to smile at my dead 
heart —that might have been mockery, or madness. 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 39 


But now, let young and old declare, which of us has 
come hither without a wedding garment, the bride- 
groom, or the bride!’ 

He stept forward at a ghostly pace, and stood be- 
side the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of 
his shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had 
arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None, that 
beheld them, could deny the terrible strength of the 
moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to 
draw. 

‘Cruel! cruel!’ groaned the heart-stricken bride. 

‘Cruel?’ repeated he; then losing his death-like 
composure in a wild bitterness, — ‘Heaven judge, 
which of us has been cruel to the other! In youth, 
you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my 
aims; you took away all the substance of my life, 
and made it a dream, without reality enough even to 
grieve at—with only a pervading gloom, through 
which I walked wearily, and cared not whither. But 
after forty years, when I have built my tomb, and 
would not give up the thought of resting there — no, 
not for such a life as we once pictured — you call me 
to the altar. At your summons I am here. But 
other husbands have enjoyed your youth, your beauty, 
your warmth of heart, and all that could be termed 
your life. What is there for me but your decay and 
death? And therefore I have bidden these funeral 
friends, and bespoken the sexton’s deepest knell, and 
am come, in my shroud, to wed you, as with a burial 
service, that we may join our hands at the door of 
the sepulchre, and enter it together.’ 


40 THE WEDDING KNELL. 


It was not frenzy ; it was not merely the drunken- 
ness of strong emotion, in a heart unused to it, that 
now wrought upon the bride. The stern lesson of 
the day had done its work ; her worldliness was gone. 
She seized the bridegroom’s hand. 

‘Yes!’ cried she. ‘ Let us wed, even at the door 
of the sepulchre! My life is gone in vanity and emp- 
tiness. But at its close, there is one true feeling. It 
has made me what I was in youth; it makes me 
worthy of you. Time is no more for both of us. 
Let us wed for eternity!’ 

With a long and deep regard, the bridegroom look- 
ed into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his 
own. How strange that gush of human feeling from 
the frozen bosom of a corpse! He wiped away the 
tear, even with his shroud. 

‘Beloved of my youth,’ said he, ‘I have been wild. 
The despair of my whole lifetime had returned at 
once, and maddened me. Forgive ; and be forgiven. 
Yes; itis evening with us now ; and we have realized 
none of our morning dreams of happiness. But let 
us join our hands before the altar, as lovers, whom 
adverse circumstances have separated through life, 
yet who meet again as they are leaving it, and find 
their earthly affection changed into something holy 
as religion. And what is Time, to the married of 
Eternity ?’ 

Amid the tears of many, and a swell of exalted 
sentiment, in those who felt aright, was solemnized 
the union of two immortal souls. The train of with- 
ered mourners, the hoary bridegroom: in his shroud, 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 4l 


the pale features of the aged bride, and the death- 
bell tolling through the whole, till its deep voice over- 
powered the marriage words, all marked the funeral 
of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, 
the organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of this im- 
pressive scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling 
with the dismal knell, then rising to a loftier strain, 
till the soul looked down upon its woe. And when 
the awful rite was finished, and with cold hand in 
cold hand, the Married of Eternity withdrew, the or- 
gan’s peal of solemn triumph drowned the Wedding 
Knell. 


Did le ih Swe -F 





THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


* 


wet? y ae 


co 4 tee 





THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


2 


x PARABUE.* 


THE sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting- 
house, pulling lustily at the bell-rope. The old peo- 
ple of the village came stooping along the street. 
Children, with bright faces, tript merrily beside their 
parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious 
dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors 
looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied 
that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on 
week-days. When the throng had mostly streamed 
into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keep- 


1 Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, 
of York, Maine, who died about eighty years since, made 
himself remarkable by the same eccentricity that is here re- 
lated of the Reverend Mr. Hooper. In his case, however, 
the symbol had a different import. In early life he had acci- 
dentally killed a beloved friend; and from that day till the 
hour of his own death, he hid his face from men. 


46 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


ing his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper’s door. 
The first glimpse of the clergyman’s figure, was the 
signal for the bell to cease its summons. 

‘But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his 
face ?’ cried the sexton in astonishment. 

All within hearing immediately turned about, and 
beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly 
his meditative way towards the meeting-house. With 
one accord they started, expressing more wonder than 
if some strange minister were coming to dust the 
cushions of Mr. Hooper’s pulpit. 

‘Are you sure it is our parson?’ inquired Good- 
man Gray of the sexton. 

‘Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper,’ replied the 
sexton. ‘He was to have exchanged pulpits with 
Parson Shute, of Westbury ; but Parson Shute sent to 
excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral 
sermon.’ 

The cause of so much amazement may appear 
sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly per- 
son, of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was 
dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a careful 
wife had starched his band, and brushed the weekly 
dust from his Sunday’s garb. There was but one 
thing remarkable in his appearance. Swathed about 
his forehead, and hanging down over his face, so low 
as to be shaken by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a 
black veil. Ona nearer view, it seemed to consist 
of two folds of crape, which entirely concealed his 
features, except the mouth and chin, but probably 
did not intercept his sight, farther than to give a dark- 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 47 


ened aspect to all living and inanimate things. With 
this gloomy shade before him, good Mr. Hooper 
walked onward, at a slow and quiet pace, stooping 
somewhat and looking on the ground, as is custom- 
ary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those 
of his parishioners who still waited on the meeting- 
house steps. But so wonder-struck were they, that 
his greeting hardly met with a return. 

‘I can’t really feel as if good Mr. Hooper’s face 
was behind that piece, of crape,’ said the sexton. 

‘I don’t like it,’ muttered an old woman, as she 
hobbled into the meeting-house. ‘He has changed 
himself into something awful, only by hiding his 
face.’ 

‘Our parson has gone mad!’ cried Goodman Gray, 
following him across the threshold. 

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had 
preceded Mr. Hooper into the meeting-house, and set 
all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from 
twisting their heads towards the door; many stood 
upright, and turned directly about; while several lit- 
tle boys clambered upon the seats, and came down 
again with a terrible racket.. There was a general 
bustle, a rustling of the women’s gowns and shuffling 
of the men’s feet, greatly at variance with that hush- 
ed repose which should attend the entrance of the 
minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the 
perturbation of his people. He entered with an al- 
most noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews 
on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest 
parishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who oc- 


48 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


cupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. It 
was strange to observe, how slowly this venerable 
man became conscious of something singular in the 
appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to 
partake of the prevailing wonder, till Mr. Hooper 
had ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the 
pulpit, face to face with his congregation, except for 
the black veil. That mysterious emblem was never 
once withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath 
as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity be- 
tween him and the holy page, as he read the Scrip- 
tures; and while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on 
his uplifted countenance. Did he seek to hide it from 
the dread Being whom he was addressing ? 

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape, 
that more than one woman of delicate nerves was 
forced to leave the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the 
pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight 
to the minister, as his black veil to them. 

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, 
but not an energetic one: he strove to win his people 
heavenward, by mild, persuasive influences, rather 
than to drive them thither, by the thunders of the 
Word. The sermon which he now delivered, was 
marked by the same characteristics of style and man- 
ner, as the general series of his pulpit oratory. But 
there was something, either in the sentiment of the 
discourse itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, 
which made it greatly the most powerful effort that 
they had ever heard from their pastor’s lips. It was 
tinged, rather more darkly than usual, with the gentle 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 49 


gloom of Mr. Hooper’s temperament. The subject 
had reference to secret sin, and those sad mysteries 
which we hide from our nearest and dearest, and 
would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even 
forgetting that the Omniscient can detect them. A 
subtle power was breathed into his words. Each 
member of the congregation, the most innocent girl, 
and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher 
had crept upon them, behind his awful veil, and dis- 
covered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. 
Many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. 
There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said ; 
at least, no violence; and yet, with every tremor of 
his melancholy voice, the hearers quaked. An un- 
sought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So 
sensible were the audience of some unwonted attri- 
bute in their minister, that they longed for a breath of 
wind to blow aside the veil, almost believing that a 
stranger’s visage would be discovered, though the 
form, gesture, and voice were those of Mr. Hooper. 

At the close of the services, the people hurried out 
with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their 
pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits, 
the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some 
gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, 
with their mouths all whispering in the centre ; some 
went homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation ; 
some talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath-day 
with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sa- 
gacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate 
the mystery; while one or two affirmed that there 

VOL. I. 4 


50 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper’s 
eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp, as to 
require a shade. After a brief interval, forth came 
good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turn- 
ing his veiled face from one group to another, he paid 
due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle- 
aged, with kind dignity, as their friend and spiritual 
guide, greeted the young with mingled authority and 
love, and laid his hands on the little children’s heads 
to bless them. Such was always his custom on the 
Sabbath-day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid 
him for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, 
aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor’s side. 
Old Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse 
of memory, neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his ta- 
ble, where the good clergyman had been wont to 
bless the food, almost every Sunday since his: settle- 
ment. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, 
at the moment of closing the door, was observed to 
look back upon the people, all of whom had their 
eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile gleamed 
faintly from beneath the black veil, and flickered 
about his mouth, glimmering as he disappeared. 

‘How strange,’ said a lady, ‘that a simple black 
veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, 
should become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper’s 
face !’ 

‘Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper’s 
intellects,’ observed her husband, the physician of the 
village. ‘But the strangest part of the affair is the 
effect of this vagary, even on a sober-minded man - 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 51 


like myself. ‘The black veil, though it covers only 
our pastor’s face, throws its influence over his whole 
person, and makes him ghost-like from head to foot. 
Do you not feel it so?’ 

‘Truly do I,’ replied the lady ; “and I would not 
be alone with him for the world, I wonder he is not 
afraid to be alone with himself!’ 

‘Men sometimes are so,’ said her husband. 

The afternoon service was attended with similar cir- 
cumstances. At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the fu- 
neral of a young lady. The relatives and friends were 
assembled in the house, and the more distant acquaint- 
ances stood about the door, speaking of the good qual- 
ities of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by 
the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his 
black veil. It was now an appropriate emblem. The 
clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was 
laid, and bent over the coffin, to take a last farewell 
of his deceased parishioner. As he stooped, the veil 
hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her 
eye-lids had not been closed forever, the dead maiden 
might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be 
fearful of her glance, that he so hastily caught back 
the black veil? A person, who watched the inter- 
view between the dead and living, scrupled not to af- 
firm, that, at the instant when the clergyman’s fea- 
tures were disclosed, the corpse had slightly shudder- 
ed, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the 
countenance retained the composure of death. A 
superstitious old woman was the only witness of this 
prodigy. From the coffin, Mr. Hooper passed into 


52 THE: MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head 
of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was 
a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, 
yet so imbued with celestial hopes, that the music of 
a heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, 
seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest accents 
of the minister. The people trembled, though they 
but darkly understood him, when he prayed that they, 
and himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, 
as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the 
dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their 
faces. The bearers went heavily forth, and the 
mourners followed, saddening all the street, with the 
dead before them, and Mr. Hooper in his black veil 
behind. 

‘Why do you look. back ?” said one in the proces- 
sion to his partner. 

‘Thad a fancy,’ replied she, ‘ that the minister and 
the maiden’s spirit were walking hand in hand.’ 

‘ And so had I, at the same moment,’ said the other. 

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford vil- 
lage were to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned 
a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheer- 
fulness for such occasions, which often excited a sym- 
pathetic smile, where liyelier merriment would have 
been thrown away. There was no quality of his dis- 
position which made him more beloved than this. 
The company at the wedding awaited his arrival with 
impatience, trusting that the strange awe, which had 
gathered over him throughout the day, would now be 
dispelled. But such was not the result. When Mr. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 53 


Hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on 
was the same horrible black veil, which had added 
deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend 
nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its im- 
mediate effect on the guests, that a cloud seemed to 
have rolled duskily from beneath the black crape, and 
dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair 
stood up before the minister. But the bride’s cold 
fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the bride- 
groom, and her death-like paleness caused a whisper, 
that the maiden who had been buried a few hours be- 
fore, was come from her grave to be married. If 
ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that 
famous one, where they tolled the wedding knell. 
After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper raised a 
glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the 
new-married couple, in a strain of mild pleasantry 
that ought to have brightened the features of the 
guests, like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At 
that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the 
looking-glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in 
the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. 
His frame shuddered — his lips grew white — he spilt 
the untasted wine upon the carpet — and rushed forth 
into the darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her 
Black Veil. 

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked 
of little else than Parson Hooper’s black veil. ‘That, 
and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic 
for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the 
street, and good women gossiping at their open win- 


54 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


dows. It was the first item of news that the tavern- 
keeper told to his guests. The children babbled of 
it on their way to school. One imitative little imp 
covered his face with an old black handkerchief, 
thereby so affrighting his playmates, that the panic 
seized himself, and he well nigh lost his wits by his 
own waggery. 

It was remarkable that, of all the busy-bodies sid 
impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to 
put the plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he 
did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared 
the slightest call for such interference, he had never 
lacked advisers, nor shown himself averse to be 
guided by their judgment. If he erred at all, it was 
by so painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the 
mildest censure would lead him to consider an indif- 
ferent action as a crime. Yet, though so well ac- 
quainted with this amiable weakness, no individual 
among his parishioners chose to make the black veil 
a subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a 
feeling of dread, neither plainly confessed nor care- 
fully concealed, which caused each to shift the re- 
sponsibility upon another, till at length it was found 
expedient to send a deputation of the church, in order 
to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before it 
should grow into a scandal. Never did an embassy 
so ill discharge its duties. The minister received 
them with friendly courtesy, but became silent, after 
they were seated, leaving to his visiters the whole 
burthen of introducing their important business. ‘The 
topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 55 


There was the black veil, swathed round Mr. Hooper’s 
forehead, and concealing every feature above his 
placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive 
the. glimmering of a melancholy smile. But that 
piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang 
down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret 
between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, 
they might speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus 
they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused, 
and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper’s eye, which 
they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible 
glance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to 
their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty 
to be handled, except by a council of the churches, 
if, indeed, it might not require a general synod. 

But there was one person in the village, unappalled 
by the awe with which the black veil had impressed 
all beside herself. When the deputies returned with- 
out an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, 
she, with the calm energy of her character, deter- 
mined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared 
to be settling round Mr. Hooper, every moment more 
darkly than before. As his plighted wife, it should 
be her privilege to know what the black veil con- 
cealed, At the minister’s first visit, therefore, she 
entered upon the subject, with a direct simplicity, 
which made the task easier both for him and her. 
After he had seated himself, she fixed her eyes stead- 
fastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the 
dreadful gloom that had so overawed the multitude: 
it was but a double fold of crape, hanging down from 


56 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


his forehead to his mouth, and slightly stirring with 
his breath. 

‘No,’ said she aloud, and smiling, ‘ there is nothing 
terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides a 
face which I am always glad to look upon. Come, 
good sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud. 
First lay aside your black veil: then tell me why you 
put it on.’ 

Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly. 

‘ There is an hour to come,’ said he, ‘ when all of 
us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, be- 
loved friend, if I wear this piece of crape till then.’ 

‘Your words are a mystery too,’ returned the 
young lady. ‘Take away the veil from them, at 
least.’ 

‘ Elizabeth, I will,’ said he, ‘so far as my vow may 
suffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a 
symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light 
and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of mul- 
titudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar 
friends. No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This 
dismal shade must separate me from the world: even 
you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it!” 

‘ What grievous affliction hath befallen you,’ she 
earnestly inquired, ‘ that you should thus darken your 
eyes for ever?” 

‘If it be a sign of mourning,’ ‘replied Mr. Hooper, 
‘T, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows 
dark enough to be typified by a black veil.’ 

‘But what if the world will not believe that it is 
the type of an innocent sorrow?’ urged Elizabeth. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 57 


‘Beloved and respected as you are, there may be 
whispers, that you hide your face under the conscious- 
ness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy oflice, 
do away this scandal !” 

The color rose into her cheeks, as she intimated 
the nature of the rumors that were already abroad in 
the village. But Mr. Hooper’s mildness did not for- 
sake him. He even smiled again — that same sad 
smile, which always appeared like a faint glimmering 
of light, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the 
veil. 

‘If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause 
enough,’ he merely replied ; ‘and if 1 cover it for 
secret sin, what mortal might not do the same ? ’ 

. And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy, 
did he resist all her entreaties. At length Elizabeth 
sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in 
thought, considering, probably, what new methods 
might be tried, to withdraw her lover from so dark a 
fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was per- 
haps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a 
firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down 
her cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new 
feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed 
insensibly on the black veil, when, like a sudden twi- 
light in the air, its terrors fell around her. She arose, 
and stood trembling before him. 

‘ And do you feel it then at last?’ said he mourn- 
fully. 

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her 
hand, and turned to leave the room. He rushed for- 
ward and caught her arm. 


58 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


‘Have patience with me, Elizabeth!’ cried he 
passionately. ‘Do not desert me, though this veil 
must be between us here on earth. Be mine, and 
hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no 
darkness between our souls! It is but a mortal veil 
—it is not for eternity! Oh! you know not how 
lonely I am, and how frightened, to be alone behind 
my black veil. Do not leave me in this miserable 
obscurity for ever!’ 

‘ Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face,’ 
said she. 7 

‘Never! It cannot be!’ replied Mr. Hooper. 

‘Then, farewell!’ said Elizabeth. 

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly 
departed, pausing at the door, to give one long, shud- 
dering gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the 
mystery of the black veil. But, even amid his grief, 
Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a material em- 
blem had separated him from happiness, though the 
horrors, which it shadowed forth, must be drawn dark- 
ly between the fondest of lovers. 

From that time no attempts were made to remove 
Mr. Hooper’s black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to dis- 
cover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By 
persons who claimed a superiority to popular preju- 
dice, it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such 
as often mingles with the sober actions of men other- 
wise rational, and tinges them all with its own sem- 
blance of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr. 
Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not 
walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 59 


was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to 
avoid him, and that others would make it a point of 
hardihood to throw themselves in his way. The im- 
pertinence of the latter class compelled him to give 
up his customary walk, at sunset, to the burial ground ; 
for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there 
would always be faces behind the grave-stones, peep- 
ing at his black veil. A fable went the rounds, that 
the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It 
grieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to 
observe how the children fled from his approach, 
breaking up their merriest sports, while his melancholy 
figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused 
him to feel, more strongly than aught else, that a 
preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads 
of the black crape. In truth, his own antipathy to 
the veil was known to be so great, that he never will- 
ingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at 
a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should 
be affrighted by himself. This was what gave plausi- 
bility to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper’s conscience 
tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be 
entirely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely in- 
timated. Thus, from beneath the black veil, there 
rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin 
or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that 
love or sympathy could never reach him. It was said, 
that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With 
self-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked con- 
tinually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own 
soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the 


60 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed, 
respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside 
the veil. But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled, at 
the pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by. 
Among all its bad influences, the black veil had 
the one desirable effect, of making its wearer a very 
efficient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious em- 
blem — for there was no other apparent cause — he 
became a man of awful power, over souls that were 
in agony for sin. His converts always regarded him 
with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though 
but figuratively, that, before he brought them to celes- 
tial light, they had been with him behind the black 
veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize 
with all dark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud 
for Mr. Hooper, and would not yield their breath til 
he appeared; though ever, as he stooped to whisper 
consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near 
their own. Such were the terrors of the black veil, 
even when Death had bared his visage! Strangers 
came long distances to attend service at his church, ~ 
with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, 
because it was forbidden them to behold his face. 
But many were made to quake ere they departed ! 
Once, during Governor Belcher’s administration, Mr. 
Hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. 
Covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief 
magistrate, the council, and the representatives, and 
wrought so deep an impression, that the legislative 
measures of that year, were characterized by all the 
gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 61 


In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irre- 
proachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal 
suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved, and 
dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in 
their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid 
in mortal anguish. -As years wore on, shedding their 
snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name 
throughout the New England churches, and they 
called him Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishion- 
ers, who were of mature age when he was settled, 
had been borne away by many a funeral: he had one 
congregation in the church, and a more crowded one 
in the church-yard ; and having wrought so late into 
the evening, and done his work so well, it was now 
good Father Hooper’s turn to rest. : 

Several persons were visible by the shaded candle- 
light, in the death-chamber of the old clergyman. 
Natural connexions he had none. But there was the 
decorously grave, though unmoved physician, seeking 
only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he 
could not save. ‘There were the deacons, and other 
eminently pious members of his church. ‘There, 
also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a 
young and zealous divine, who had ridden in haste to 
pray by the bed-side of the expiring minister. There 
was the nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one 
whose calm affection had endured thus long in se- 
crecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age, and would 
not perish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Eliz- 
abeth! And there lay the hoary head of good Father 
Hooper upon the death-pillow, with the black veil 


62 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


still swathed about his brow and reaching down over 
his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint 
breath caused it to stir. All through life that piece 
of crape had hung between him and the world : it 
had sehr him from cheerful brotherhood and 
woman’s love, and kept him in that saddest of all 
prisons, his own heart; and still it lay upon his face, 
as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, 
and shade him from the sunshine of eternity. 

For some time previous, his mind had been con- 
fused, wavering doubtfully between the past and the 
present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, 
into the indistinctness of the world to come. ‘There 
had been feverish turns, which tossed him from side 
to side, and wore away what little strength he had. 
But in his most convulsive struggles, and in the wild- 
est vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought 
retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful 
solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even 
if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was 
a faithful woman at his pillow, who, with averted 
eyes, would have covered that aged face, which she 
had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At 
length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in the 
torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an im- 
perceptible pulse, and breath that grew fainter and 
fainter, except when a long, deep, and irregular in- 
spiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit. 

The minister of Westbury approached the bed- 
side. | 

‘Venerable Father Hooper,’ said he, ‘ the moment 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 63 


of your release is at hand. Are you ready for the 
lifting of the veil, that shuts in time from eternity ?’ 

Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble 
motion of his head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that 
his meaning might be doubtful, he exerted himself to 
speak. 

‘Yea,’ said he, in faint accents, ‘my soul hath a 
patient weariness until that veil be lifted.’ 

‘ And is it fitting,’ resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, 
‘that a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless 
example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal 
judgment may pronounce; is it fitting that a father in 
the church should leave a shadow on his memory, 
that may seem to blacken a life so pure? I pray 
you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! 
Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect, 
as you go to your reward. Before the veil of eter- 
nity be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from 
your face!’ 

And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent 
forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. 
But, exerting a sudden energy, that made all the be- 
holders stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched both 
his hands from beneath the bed-clothes, and pressed 
them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, 
if the minister of Westbury would contend with a 
dying man. 

‘Never!’ cried the veiled clergyman. ‘On earth, 
never!’ 

‘Dark old man!’ exclaimed the affrighted minister, 
‘with what horrible crime upon your soul are you 
now passing to the judgment?’ 


64 THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


Father Hooper’s breath heaved ; it rattled in his 
throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward 
with his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back 
till he should speak. He even raised himself in bed ; 
and there he sat, shivering with the arms of death 
around him, while the black veil hung down, awful, 
at that last moment, in the gathered terrors of a life- 
time. And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, 
now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger 
on Father Hooper’s lips. 

‘ Why do you tremble at me alone?’ cried he, turn- 
ing his veiled face round the circle of pale spectators. 
‘Tremble also at each other! Have men avoided 
me, and women shown no pity, and children screamed 
and fled, only for my black veil? What, but the 
mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this 
piece of crape so awful > When the friend shows his 
inmost:heart to his friend ; the lover to his best-belov- © 
ed; when man does not vainly shrink from the eye 
of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret 
of his sin; then deem me’a monster, for the symbol 
beneath which I have lived, and die! I look around 
me, and, lo! on every visage a Black Veil i? 

While his auditors shrank from one another, in 
mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his 
pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering 
on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, 
and a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The 
grass of many years has sprung up and withered on 
that grave, the burial-stone is moss-grown, and good 
Mr. Hooper’s face is dust; but awful is still the 
thought, that it mouldered beneath the Black Veil! 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


VOL, 1 5 





THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


There is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance, in the curi- 
ous history of the early settlement of Mount Wollaston, or Merry Mount. 
In the slight sketch here attempted, the facts, recorded on the grave pages 
of our New England annalists, have wrought themselves, almost sponta- 
neously, into a sort of allegory. The masques, mummeries, and festive 
customs, described in the text, are in accordance with the manners of the 
age. Authority, on these points, may be found in Strutt’s Book of Eng- 
lish Sports and Pastimes. 


BricHt were the days at Merry Mount, when the 
May-Pole was the banner-staff of that gay colony ! 
They who reared it, should their banner be triumph- 
ant, were to pour sun-shine over New England’s rug- 
ged hills, and scatter flower-seeds throughout the soil. 
Jollity and gloom were contending for an empire. 
Midsummer eve had come, bringing deep verdure to 
the forest, and roses in her lap, of a more vivid hue 
than the tender buds of Spring. But May, or her 
mirthful spirit, dwelt all the year round at Merry 


68 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


Mount, sporting with the Summer months, and revel- 
ing with Autumn, and basking in the glow of Win- 
ter’s fireside. Through a world of toil and care, she 
flitted with a dreamlike smile, and came hither to find 
a home among the lightsome hearts of Merry Mount. 
Never had the May-Pole been so gaily decked as 
at sunset on midsummer eve. This venerated em- 
blem was a pine tree, which had preserved the slen- 
der grace of youth, while it equaled the loftiest height 
of the old wood monarchs. From its top streamed a 
silken banner, colored like the rainbow. Down nearly 
to the ground, the pole was dressed with birchen 
boughs, and others of the liveliest green, and some 
with silvery leaves, fastened by ribbons that fluttered 
in fantastic knots of twenty different colors, but no 
sad ones. Garden flowers, and blossoms of the wil- 
derness, laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so 
fresh and dewy, that they must have grown by magic 
on that happy pine tree. Where this green and 
flowery splendor terminated, the shaft of the May- 
Pole was stained with the seven brilliant hues of the 
banner at its top. On the lowest green bough hung 
an abundant wreath of roses, some that had. been 
gathered in the sunniest spots of the forest, and others, 
of still richer blush, which the colonists had reared 
from English seed. Oh, people of the Golden Age, 
the chief of your husbandry, was to raise flowers ! 
But what was the wild throng that stood hand in 
hand about the May-Pole? It could not be, that the 
Fauns and Nymphs, when driven from their classic 
groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 69 


as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the 
West. These were Gothic monsters, though perhaps 
of Grecian ancestry.. On the shoulders of a comely 
youth, uprose the head and branching antlers of a 
stag; a second, human in all other points, had the 
grim visage of a wolf; a third, still with the trunk 
and limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and 
horns of a venerable he-goat. There was the like- 
ness of a bear erect, brute. in all but his hind legs, 
which were adorned with pink silk stockings. And 
here again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of 
the dark forest, lending each of his fore-paws to the 
grasp of a human hand, and as ready for the dance 
as any in that circle. His inferior nature rose half- 
way, to meet his companions as they stooped. Other 
faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but dis- 
torted or extravagant, with red noses pendulous before 
their mouths, which seemed of awful depth, and 
stretched from ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. 
Here might be seen the Salvage Man, well known in 
heraldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green 
leaves. By his side, a nobler figure, but still a 
counterfeit, appeared an Indian hunter, with feathery 
crest and wampum belt. Many of this strange com- 
pany wore fools-caps, and had little bells appended to 
their garments, tinkling with a silvery sound, respon- 
sive to the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. 
Some youths and maidens were of soberer garb, yet 
well maintained their places in the irregular throng, 
by the expression of wild revelry upon their features. 
Such were the colonists of Merry Mount, as they 


70 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


stood in the broad smile of sunset, round their vene- 
rated May-Pole. 

Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy 
forest, heard their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted 
glance, he might have fancied them the crew of Co- 
mus, some already transformed to brutes, some mid- 
way between man and beast, and the others rioting in 
the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change. But 
a band of Puritans, who watched the scene, invisible 
themselves, compared the masques to those devils and 
ruined souls, with whom their superstition peopled the 
black wilderness. 

Within the ring of monsters; appeared the two air- 
iest forms, that had ever trodden on any more solid 
footing than a purple and golden cloud. One was a 
youth, in glistening apparel, with a scarf of the rain- 
bow pattern crosswise on his breast. His right hand 
held a gilded staff, the ensign of high dignity among 
the revelers, and his left grasped the slender fingers 
of a fair maiden, not less gaily decorated than him- 
self. Bright roses ‘glowed in contrast with the dark 
and glossy curls of each, and were scattered round 
their feet, or had sprung up spontaneously there. Be- 
hind this lightsome couple, so close to the May-Pole, 
that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure 
of an English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked 
with flowers, in Heathen fashion, and wearing a chap- 
let of the native vine leaves. By the riot of his roll- 
ing eye, and the pagan decorations of his holy garb, 
he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very 
Comus of the crew. 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 71 


‘ Votaries of the May-Pole,’ cried the flower-decked 
priest, ‘ merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed 
to your mirth. But be this your merriest hour, my 
hearts! Lo, here stand the Lord and Lady of the 
May, whom I, a clerk of Oxford, and high-priest of 
Merry Mount, am presently to join in holy matrimo- 
ny. Up with your nimble spirits, ye morrice-dancers, 
green men, and glee-maidens, bears and wolves, and 
horned gentlemen! Come ; a chorus now, rich with 
the old mirth of Merry England, and the wilder glee 
of this fresh forest; and then a dance, to show the 
youthful pair what life is made of, and how airily they 
should go through it! All ye that love the May-Pole, 
lend your voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and 
Lady of the May!’ 

This wedlock was more serious than most affairs 
of Merry Mount, where jest and delusion, trick and 
fantasy, kept up a continual carnival. ‘The Lord and 
Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid 
down at sunset, were really and truly to be partners 
for the dance of life, beginning the measure that same 
bright eve. ‘The wreath of roses, that hung from the 
lowest green bough of the May-Pole, had been twined 
for them, and would be thrown over both their heads, 
in symbol of their flowery union. When the priest 
had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar burst from 
the rout of monstrous figures. 

‘Begin you the stave, reverend Sir,’ cried they 
all; ‘and never did the woods ring to such a merry 
peal, as we of the May-Pole shall send up!’ 

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern, and viol, 


72 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play from 
a neighboring thicket, in such a mirthful cadence, 
that the boughs of the May-Pole quivered to the 
sound. But the May Lord, he of the gilded staff, 
chancing to look into his lady’s eyes, was wonder- 
struck at the almost pensive glance that met his own. 

‘ Edith, sweet Lady of the May,’ whispered he, re- 
proachfully, ‘is yon wreath of roses a garland to 
hang: above our graves, that you look so sad? Oh, 
Edith, this is our golden time! ‘Tarnish it not by 
any pensive shadow of the mind ; for it may be, that 
nothing of futurity will be brighter aa the mere 
remembrance of what is now passing.’ 

‘That was the very thought that saddened me! 
How came it in your mind too ?” said Edith, in a still 
lower tone than he; for it was high treason to be sad 
at Merry Mount. ‘Therefore do I sigh amid this 
festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle 
as with a dream, and fancy that these shapes of our 
jovial friends are visionary, and their mirth unreal, 
and that we are no true Lord and Lady of the May. 
What is the mystery in my heart ?’ 

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, evista 
came a little shower of withering rose leaves from 
the May-Pole. Alas, for the young lovers! No 
sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion, 
than they were sensible of something vague and 
unsubstantial in their former pleasures, and felt a 
dreary presentiment of inevitable change. From the 
moment that they truly loved, they had subjected 
themselves to earth’s doom of care, and sorrow, and 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 13 


troubled joy, and had no more a home at Merry 
Mount. ‘That was Edith’s mystery. Now leave we 
the priest to marry them, and the masquers to sport 
round the May-Pole, till the last sunbeam be with- 
drawn from its summit, and the shadows of the forest 
mingle gloomily in the dance. Meanwhile, we may 
discover who these gay people were. 

Two hundred years ago, and more, the old world 
and its inhabitants became mutually weary of each 
other. Men yoyaged by thousands to the West ; 
some to barter glass beads, and such like jewels, for 
the furs of the Indian hunter ; some to conquer virgin 
empires; and one stern band to pray. But none of 
these motives had much weight with the colonists of 
Merry Mount. Their leaders were men who had 
sported so long with life, that when Thought and 
Wisdom came, even these unwelcome guests were 
led astray, by the crowd of vanities which they should 
have put to flight. Erring Thought and perverted 
Wisdom were made to put on masques, and play the 
fool. The men of whom we speak, after losing the 
heart’s fresh gaiety, imagined a wild philosophy of 
pleasure, and came hither to act out their latest day- 
dream. They gathered followers from all that giddy 
tribe, whose whole life is like the festal days of 
soberer men. In their train were minstrels, not un- 
known in London streets ; wandering players, whose 
theatres had been the halls of noblemen ; mummers, 
ropé-dancers, and mountebanks, who would long be 
missed at wakes, church-ales, and fairs; in a word, 
mirth-makers of every sort, such as abounded in that 


74 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


age, but now began to be discountenanced by the 
rapid growth of Puritanism. Light had their foot- 
steps been on land, and as lightly they came across 
the sea. Many had been maddened by their pre- 
vious troubles into a gay despair; others were as 
madly gay in the flush of youth, like the May Lord 
and his Lady ; but whatever might be the quality of 
their mirth, old and young were gay at Merry Mount. 
The young deemed themselves happy. The elder 
spirits, if they knew that mirth was but the counter- 
feit of happiness, yet followed the false shadow wil- 
fully, because at least her garments glittered bright- 
est. Sworn triflers of a life-time they would not 
venture among the sober truths of life, not even to 
be truly blest. , 

All the hereditary pastimes of Old England were 
transplanted hither. The King of Christrnas was 
duly crowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore potent 
sway. On the eve of Saint John, they felled whole 
acres of the forest to make bonfires, and danced by 
the blaze all night, crowned with garlands, and 
throwing flowers into the flame. At harvest time, 
though their crop was of the smallest, they made an 
image with the sheaves of Indian corn, and wreathed 
it with autumnal garlands, and bore it home triumph- 
antly. But what chiefly characterized the colo- 
nists of Merry Mount, was their veneration for the 
May-Pole. It has made their true history a poet’s 
tale. Spring decked the hallowed emblem with young 
blossoms and fresh green boughs; Summer brought 
roses of the deepest blush, and the perfected foliage 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. ve) 


of the forest; Autumn enriched it with that red and 
yellow gorgeousness, which converts each wild-wood 
leaf into a painted flower; and Winter silvered it 
with sleet, and hung it round with icicles, till it flash- 
ed in the cold sunshine, itself a frozen sunbeam. 
Thus each alternate season did homage to the May- 
Pole, and paid it a tribute of its own richest splendor. 
Its votaries danced round it, once, at least, in every 
month ; sometimes they called it their religion, or 
their altar; but always, it was the banner-staff of 
Merry Mount. 

Unfortunately, there were men in the new world, 
of a sterner faith than these May-Pole worshipers. 
Not far from Merry Mount was a settlement of Puri- 
tans, most dismal wretches, who said their prayers 
before daylight, and then wrought in the forest or 
the cornfield, till evening made it prayer time again. 
Their weapons were always at hand, to shoot down 
the straggling savage. When they met in conclave, 
it was never to keep up the old English mirth, but to 
hear sermons three hours long, or to proclaim boun- 
ties on the heads of wolves and the scalps of Indians. 
Their festivals were fast-days, and their chief pastime 
the singing of psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden, 
who did but dream of a dance! The selectman nod- 
ded to the constable ; and there sat the light-heeled 
reprobate in the stocks; or if he danced, it was 
round the whipping-post, which might be termed the 
Puritan May-Pole. 

A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the 
difficult woods, each with a horse-load of iron armor 


76 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


to burthen his footsteps, would sometimes draw near 
the sunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were 
the silken colonists, sporting round their May-Pole ; 
perhaps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to 
communicate their mirth to the grave Indian; or 
masquerading in the skins of deer and wolves, which 
they had hunted for that especial purpose. Often, 
the whole colony were playing at blindman’s buff, 
magistrates and all with their eyes bandaged, except 
a single scape-goat, whom the blinded sinners pursued 
by the tinkling of the bells at his garments. Once, it 
is said, they were seen following a flower-decked 
corpse, with merriment and festive music, to his 
grave. But did the dead man laugh? In their quiet- 
est times, they sang ballads and told tales, for the 
edification of their pious visiters ; or perplexed them 
with juggling tricks; or grinned at them through 
horse-collars; and when sport itself grew wearisome, 
they made game of their own stupidity, and began a 
yawning match. At the very least of these enormi- 
ties, the men of iron shook their heads and frowned 
so darkly, that the revelers looked up, imagining 
that a momentary cloud had overcast the sunshine, 
which was to be perpetual there. On the other 
hand, the Puritans affirmed, that, when a psalm was 
pealing from their place of worship, the echo, which 
the forest sent them back, seemed often like the 
chorus of a jolly catch, closing with a roar of laugh- 
ter. Who but the, fiend, and his bond-slaves, the 
crew of Merry Mount, had thus disturbed them! In 
due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter. on one side, 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 717 


and as serious on the other as any thing could be, 
among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to 
the May-Pole. The future complexion of New Eng- 
land was involved in this important quarrel. Should 
the grisly saints establish their jurisdiction over the 
gay sinners, then would their spirits darken all the 
clime, and make it a land of clouded visages, of hard 
toil, of sermon and psalm for ever. But should the 
banner-staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine 
would break upon the hills, and flowers would beau- 
tify the forest, and late posterity do homage to the 
May-Pole. 


After these authentic passages from history, we 
return to the nuptials of the Lord and Lady of the 
May. Alas! we have delayed too long, and must 
darken our tale too suddenly. As we glance again 
at the May-Pole, a solitary sun-beam is fading from 
the summit, and leaves only a faint golden tinge, 
blended with the hues of the rainbow banner. Even 
that dim light is now withdrawn, relinquishing the 
whole domain of Merry Mount to the evening gloom, 
which has rushed so instantaneously from the black 
surrounding woods. But some of these black shadows 
have rushed forth in human shape. 

Yes: with the setting sun, the last day of mirth 
had passed from Merry Mount. The ring of gay 
masquers was disordered and broken; the stag low- 
ered his antlers in dismay ; the wolf grew weaker 
than a lamb; the bells of the morrice-dancers tinkled 
with tremulous affright. The Puritans had played 
a characteristic part in the May-Pole mummeries. 


718 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


Their darksome figures were intermixed with the 
wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a pic- 
ture of the moment, when waking thoughts start up 
amid the scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader 
of the hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, 
while the rout of monsters cowered around him, like 
evil spirits in the presence of a dread magician. No 
fantastic foolery could look him in the face. So stern 
was the energy of his aspect, that the whole man, 
visage, frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron, 
gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance 
with his head-piece and breast-plate. It was the 
Puritan of Puritans; it was Endicott himself! . 

‘Stand off, priest of Baal!” said he, with a grim 
frown, and laying no reverent hand upon the sur- 
plice. ‘I know thee, Blackstone!’ Thou art the 
man, who couldst not abide the rule even of thine 
own corrupted church, and hast come hither to 
preach iniquity, and to give example of it in thy life. 
But now shall it be seen that the Lord hath sanctified 
this wilderness for his peculiar people. Woe unto 
them that would defile it! And first, for this flower- 
decked abomination, the altar of thy worship !” 

And with his keen sword, Endicott assaulted the 
hallowed May-Pole. Nor long did it resist his arm. 
It groaned with a dismal sound§ it showered leaves 
and rose-buds upon the remorseless enthusiast ; and 


1 Did. Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should 
suspect a mistake here. The Rev. Mr. Blackstone, though 
an eccentric, is not known to have been an immoral man. 
We rather doubt his identity with the priest of Merry Mount. 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 79 


finally, with all its green boughs, and ribbons, and 
flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the 
banner-staff of Merry Mount. As it sank, tradition 
says, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods 
threw forth a more sombre shadow. 

‘There,’ cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on 
his work, ‘there lies the only May-Pole in New 
England! The thought is strong within me, that, by 
its fall, is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle 
mirth-makers, amongst us and our posterity. Amen, 
saith John Endicott!” | 

‘Amen!’ echoed his followers. 

But the votaries of the May-Pole gave one groan 
for their idol. At the sound, the Puritan leader 
glanced at the crew of Comus, each a figure of broad 
mirth, yet, at this moment, strangely expressive of 
sorrow and dismay. 

‘ Valiant captain,’ quoth Peter Palfrey, the Ancient 
of the band,‘ what order shall be taken with the pris- 
oners ?’ | 

‘I thought not to repent me of cutfing down a 
May-Pole,’ replied Endicott, ‘ yet now I could find in 
my heart to plant it again, and give each of these 
bestial pagans one other dance round their idol. It 
would have served rarely for a whipping-post ! ’ 

‘ But there are pine trees enow,’ suggested the lieu- 
tenant. 

‘True, good Ancient,’ said the leader. ‘ Where- 
fore, bind the heathen crew, and bestow on them a 
small matter of stripes apiece, as earnest of our fu- 
ture justice, Set some of the rogues in the stocks to 


80 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


rest themselves, so soon as Providence shall bring us 
to one of our own well-ordered settlements, where 
such accommodations may be found. Further pen- 
alties, such as branding and cropping of ears, shall be 
thought of hereafter.’ 

‘How many stripes for the priest?’ inquired An- 
cient Palfrey. 

‘None as yet,’ answered Endicott, bending his 
iron frown upon the culprit. ‘It must be for the 
Great and General Court to determine, whether stripes 
and long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, 
may atone for his transgressions. Let him look to 
himself! For such as violate our civil order, it may 
be permitted us to show mercy. But woe to the 
wretch that troubleth our religion !’ 

‘ And this dancing bear,’ resumed the officer. ‘ Must 
he share the stripes of his fellows ?’ 

‘Shoot him through the head!” said the dterbdtic 
Puritan. ‘I suspect witchcraft in the beast.’ 

* Here be a couple of shining ones,’ continued Peter 
Palfrey, pointing his weapon at the Lord and Lady of 
the May. ‘They seem to be of high station among 
these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will not be 
fitted with less than-a double share of stripes.’ 

Endicott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed 
the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. ‘There they 
stood, pale, downcast, and apprehensive. Yet there 
was an air of mutual support, and of pure affection, 
seeking aid and giving it, that showed them to be 
man and wife, with the sanction ofa priest upon their 
love. The youth, in the peril of the moment, had 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 8] 


dropped his gilded staff, and thrown his arm about 
the Lady of the May, who leaned against his breast, 
too lightly to burthen him, but with weight enough to 
express that their destinies were linked together, for 
good orevil. ‘They looked first at each other, and 
then into the grim captain’s face. There they stood, 
in the first hour of wedlock, while the idle pleasures, 
of which their companions where the emblems, had 
given place to the sternest cares of life, personified 
by the dark Puritans. But never had their youthful 
beauty seemed so pure and high, as when its glow 
was chastened by adversity. 

‘Youth,’ said Endicott, ‘ ye stand in an evil case, 
thou and thy maiden wife. Make ready presently ; 
for | am minded that ye shall both have a token to 
remember your wedding-day! ’ 

‘Stern man,’ cried the May Lord, ‘how can I 
move thee? Were the means at hand, I would resist 
to the death. Being powerless, I entreat! Do with 
me as thou wilt; but let Edith go untouched !’ 

‘Not so,’ replied the immitigable zealot. ‘Weare 
not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, which 
requireth the stricter discipline. What sayest thou, 
maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy share 
of the penalty, besides his own?’ 

‘ Be it death,’ said Edith,’ ‘and lay it all on me!” 

Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood 
in a woeful case. Their foes were triumphant, their 
friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the 
benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous 
destiny, in the shape of the Puritan leader, their only 

VOL. I. 6 


82 THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


guide. Yet the deepening twilight could not alto- 
gether conceal, that the iron man was softened ; he 
smiled, at the fair spectacle of early love ; he almost 
sighed, for the inevitable blight of early hopes. 

‘The troubles of life have come hastily on this 
young couple,’ observed Endicott. * We willsee how 
they comport themselves under ‘their present trials, 
ere we burthen them with greater. If, among the 
spoil, there be any garments of a more decent fashion, 
let them be put upon this May Lord and his Lady, 
instead of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some 
of you.’ 

‘And shall not the youth’s hair be cut?’ asked 
Peter Palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the love- 
lock and long glossy curls of the young man. 

‘Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin- 
shell fashion,’ answered the captain. ‘Then bring 
them along with us, but more gently than their fel- 
lows. There be qualities in the youth, which may 
make him valiant to fight, and sober to toil, and pious 
to pray; and in the maiden, that may fit her to be- 
come a mother in our Israel, bringing up babes in bet- 
ter nurture than her own hath been. Nor think ye, 
young ones, that they are the happiest, even in our 
lifetime of a moment, who misspend it in dancing 
round a May-Pole !’ 

And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid 
the rock-foundation of New England, lifted the wreath 
of roses from the ruin of the May-Pole, and threw it, 
with his own gauntleted hand, over the heads of the 
Lord and Lady of the May. It was a deed of pro- 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 83 


phecy. As the moral gloom of the world overpow- 
ers all systematic gaiety, even so was their home of 
wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest. They 
returned to itno more. But, as their flowery garland 
was wreathed of the brightest roses that had grown 
' there, so, in the tie that united them, were intertwined 
all the purest and best of their early joys. They 
went heavenward, supporting each other along the 
difficult path which it was their lot to tread, and never 
wasted one regretful thought on the vanities of Merry 
Mount. 





THE GENTLE BOY. 





THE GENTLE BOY. 


In the course of the year 1656, several of the peo- 
ple called Quakers, led, as they professed, by the in- 
ward movement of the spirit, made their appearance 
in New England. ‘Their reputation, as holders of 
mystic and pernicious principles, having spread before 
them, the Puritans early endeavored to banish, and to 
prevent the further intrusion of the rising sect. But 
the measures by which it was intended to purge the 
land of heresy, though more than sufficiently vig- 
orous, were entirely unsuccessful. The Quakers, 
esteeming persecution as a divine call to the post of 
danger, laid claim to a holy courage, unknown to the 
Puritans themselves, who had shunned the cross, by 
providing for the peaceable exercise of their religion 
in a distant wilderness. ‘Though it was the singular 
fact, that every nation of the earth rejected the wan- 


88 THE GENTLE BOY. 


dering enthusiasts who practised peace towards all 
men, the place of greatest uneasiness and peril, and 
therefore, in their eyes the most eligible, was the 
province of Massachusetts Bay. 

The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally dis- 
tributed by our pious forefathers; the popular antipa- 
thy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years 
after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions 
as powerful for the Quakers, as peace, honor, and re- 
ward, would have been for the worldly-minded. 
Every European vessel ‘brought new cargoes of the 
sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they 
hoped to share; and, when ship-masters were re- 
strained by heavy fines from affording them passage, 
they made long and circuitous journeys through the 
Indian country, and appeared in the province as if 
conveyed by a supernatural power. ‘Their enthusi- 
asm, heightened almost to madness by the treatment 
which they received, produced actions contrary to the 
rules of decency, as well as of rational religion, and 
presented a singular contrast to the calm and staid de- 
portment of their sectarian successors of the present 
day. The command of the spirit, inaudible except 
to the soul, and not to be controverted on grounds of 
human wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous 
exhibitions, which, abstractedly considered, well de- 
served the moderate chastisement of the rod. ‘These 
extravagances, and the persecution which was at once 
their cause and consequence, continued to increase, 
till, in the year 1659, the government of Massachu- 
setts Bay indulged two members of the Quaker sect 
with the crown of martyrdom. 


THE GENTLE BOY. 89 


An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all 
who consented to this act, but a large share of the 
awful responsibility must rest upon the person then at 
the head of the government. He was a manof narrow 
mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromis- 
ing bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent 
and hasty passions; he exerted his influence indeco- 
rously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the 
enthusiasts; and his whole conduct, in respect to 
them, was marked by brutal cruelty. ‘The Quakers, 
whose revengeful feelings were not less deep because 
they were inactive, remembered this man and his as- 
sociates, in after times. The historian of the sect 
affirms that, by the wrath of Heaven, a blight fell 
upon the land in the vicinity of the ‘ bloody town ” of 
Boston, so that no wheat would grow there ; and he 
takes his stand, as it were, among the graves of the 
ancient persecutors, and triumphantly recounts the 
judgments that overtook them, in old age or at the 
parting hour. He tells us that they died suddenly, 
and violently, and in madness ; but nothing can ex- 
ceed the bitter mockery with which he records the 
loathsome disease, and ‘death by rottenness,’ of the 
fierce and cruel governor. 

# % % * 

On the evening of the autumn day, that*had wit- 
nessed the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker per- 
suasion, a Puritan settler was returning from the me- 
tropolis to the neighboring country town in which he 
resided. The air was cool, the sky clear, and the 
lingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a 


90 THE GENTLE BOY. 


young moon, which had now nearly reached the verge 
of the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, 
wrapped in a grey frieze cloak, quickened his pace 
when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a 
gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him 
and his home. ‘The low, straw-thatched houses were 
scattered at considerable intervals along the rogd, and 
the country having been settled but about thirty years, 
the tracts of original forest still bore no small pro- 
portion tothe cultivated ground. ‘The autumn wind 
wandered among the branches, whirling away the 
leaves from all except the pine trees, and moaning as 
if it lamented the desolation of which it was the in- 
strument. The road had penetrated the mass of 
woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just 
emerging into. an open space, when the traveller’s 
ears were saluted by a sound more mournful than 
even that of the wind. It was like the wailing of some 
one in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath 
a tall and lonely fir tree, in the centre of a cleared, 
but unenclosed and uncultivated field. .The Puritan 
could not but remember that this was the very spot, 
which had been made accursed a few hours before, 
by the execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had 
been thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath 
the tree on which they suffered. He struggled, how- 
ever, against the superstitious fears which belonged to 
the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen. 

‘ The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause 
to trernble if it be otherwise,’ thought he, straining his 
eyes through the dim moonlight. ‘ Methinks it is like 


THE GENTLE BOY. 91 


the wailing of a child ; some infant, it may be, which 
has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon this 
place of death. For the ease of mine own conscience, 
I must search this matter out.’ 

He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat 
fearfully across the field. ‘Though now so desolate, 
its soil,was pressed down and trampled by the thou- 
sand footsteps of those. who had witnessed the specta- 
cle of that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving 
the dead to their loneliness. The traveller at length 
reached the fir tree, which from the middle upward 
was covered with living branches, although a scaffold 
had been erected beneath, and other preparations 
made for the work of death. Under this unhappy 
tree, which in after times was believed to drop poison 
with its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent 
blood. It was a slender and light-clad little boy, who 
leaned his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and 
half-frozen earth, and wailed bitterly, yet in a sup- 
pressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punish- 
ment of crime... The Puritan, whose approach had 
been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child’s 
shoulder, and addressed him compassionately. 

‘You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, 
and no wonder that you weep,’ said he. ‘ But dry 
your eyes, and tell me where your mother dwells. I 
promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will 
leave you in her arms to-night.’ 

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turn- 
ed his face upward to the stranger. It was a pale, 
bright-eyed countenance, certainly not more than SIX 


92 THE GENTLE BOY. 


years old, but sorrow, fear, and want, had destroyed 
much of its infantile expression. ‘The Puritan, see- 
ing the boy’s frightened gaze, and feeling that he 
trembled under his hand, endeavored to reassure him. 

‘Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the 
readiest way were to leave you here. What! you 
do not-fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made 
grave, and yet you tremble at a friend’s touch. ‘Take 
heart, child, and tell me what is your name, and 
where is your home?’ 

‘Friend,’ replied the little boy, in a sweet, though 
faltering voice, ‘they call me Ibrahim, and my home 
is here.’ | 

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to 
mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and 
the outlandish name, almost made the Puritan believe, 
that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung 
up out of the grave on which he sat. But perceiving 
that the apparition stood the test of a short mental 
prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had 
touched was life-like, he adopted a more rational sup- 
position. ‘The poor child is stricken in his intellect,’ 
thought he, ‘but verily his words are fearful, in a 
place like this.’ He then spoke soothingly, intending 
to humor the boy’s fantasy. 

‘Your home will scarce be comfortable, I[brahim, 
this cold autumn night, and I fear you are ill provided 
with food. I am hastening to a warm supper and 
bed, and if you will go with me, you shall share 
them !? 

‘I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry and 


THE GENTLE BOY. va. 


shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor 
lodging,’ replied the boy, in the quiet tone which 
despair had taught him, even so young. ‘ My father 
was of the people whom all men hate. They have 
laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my 
home.’ 

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s 
hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loath- 
some reptile. But he possessed a compassionate 
heart, which not even religious prejudice could harden 
into stone. 

‘God forbid thatI should leave this child to perish, 
though he comes of the accursed sect,’ said he to 
himself. ‘Do we not all spring from an evil root? 
Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine 
upon us? He shall not perish, neither in body, nor, 
if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul.’ 
He then spoke aloud and kindly to Ilbrahim, who had 
again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave. 
‘Was every door in the land shut against you, my 
child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed 
spot ?’ 

‘They drove me forth from the prison when they 
took my father thence,’ said the boy, ‘and I stood 
afar off, watching the crowd of people, and when 
they were gone, I came hither, and found only this 
grave. I knew that my father was sleeping here, 
and I said, this shall be my home.’ 

‘No, child, no; not while I have a roof over my 
head, or a morsel to share with you!’ exclaimed the 
Puritan, whose sympathies were now fully excited. 


94. THE GENTLE BOY. 


‘Rise up and come with me, and fear not any 
harm.’ 

The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of 
earth, as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to 
him than any in a living breast. The traveller, how- 
ever, continued to entreat him tenderly, and seeming 
to acquire some degree of confidence, he at length 
arose. But his slender limbs tottered with weakness, - 
his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the 
tree of death for support. 

‘ My poor boy, are you so feeble ?? said. the Puri- 
tan. ‘ When did you taste food last ?’ 

‘Tate of bread and water with my father in the 
prison,’ replied Ibrahim, ‘ but they brought him none 
neither yesterday nor to day, saying that he had 
eaten enough to bear him to his journey’s end. 
Trouble not thyself for my hunger, gi friend, for 
I have lacked food many times ere now.’ 

The traveller took the child in his arms and wrap- 
ped his cloak about him, while his heart stirred with 
shame and anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the 
instruments in this persecution. In the awakened 
warmth of his feelings, he resolved that, at whatever 
risk, he would not forsake the poor little defenceless 
being whom Heaven had confided to his care. With 
this determination, he left the accursed field, and re- 
sumed the homeward path from which the wailing of 
the boy had called him. The light and motionless 
burthen scarcely impeded his progress, and he soon 
beheld the fire-rays from the windows of the cottage 
which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the 


THE GENTLE BOY. 95 


western wilderness. It was surrounded by a consid- 
erable extent of cultivated ground, and the dwelling 
was situated in the nook of a wood-covered hill, 
whither it seemed to have crept for protection. 

‘Look up, child, said the Puritan to Ibrahim, 
whose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder ; ‘ there 
is our home.’ 

At the word ‘home,’ a thrill passed through the 
child’s: frame, but he continued silent.. A few mo- 
ments brought them to the cottage-door, at which the 
owner knocked; for at that early period, when sava- 
ges were wandering everywhere among the settlers, 
bolt and bar were indispensable to the security of a 
dwelling. The summons was answered by a bond- 
servant, a coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of hu- 
manity, who, after ascertaining that his master was 
the applicant, undid the door, and held a flaring pine- 
knot torch to light him in. Farther back in the pas- 
sage-way, the red blaze discovered a matronly wo- 
man, but no little crowd of children came bounding 
forth to greet their father’s return. As the Puritan 
entered, he thrust aside his cloak, and displayed 
Ilbrahim’s face to the female. 

‘Dorothy, here is a little outcast whom Providence 
hath put into our hands,’ observed he. ‘ Be kind to 
him, even as if he were of those dear ones who have 
departed from us.’ 

‘What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, To- 
bias ?’ she inquired. ‘ Is he one whom the wilderness 
folk have ravished from some Christian mother ?’ 

‘No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from 


owt) 


96 THE GENTLE BOY. 


j 


the wilderness,’ he replied. ‘The heathen savage 
would have given him to eat of his scanty morsel, 
and to drink of his birchen cup; but Christian men, 
alas! had cast him out to die.’ 

Then he told her how he had found him beneath 
the gallows, upon his father’s grave; and how his 
heart had prompted him, like the speaking of an 
inward voice, to take the little outcast home, and be 
kind unto him. He acknowledged his resolution to 
feed and clothe him, as if he were his own child, and 
to afford him the instruction which should counteract 
the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into his infant 
mind. Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker ten- 
derness than her husband, and she approved of all 
his doings and intentions. 

‘ Have you a mother, dear child ?’ she ied 

The tears burst forth from his full heart, as he 
attempted to reply ; but Dorothy at length understood 
that he had a mother, who, like the rest of her sect, 
was a persecuted wanderer. She had been taken 
from the prison a short time before, carried into the 
uninhabited wilderness, and left to perish there by 
hunger or wild beasts. This was no uncommon 
method of disposing of the Quakers, and they were 
accustomed to boast, that the inhabitants of the desert 
were more hospitable to them than civilized man. 

‘Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, 
anda kind one,’ said Dorothy, when she had gathered 
this information. ‘ Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be 
my child, as I will be your mother.’ 

The good woman prepared the little bed, from stich 


THE GENTLE BOY. 97 


her own children had successively been borne to 
another resting place. Before Ilbrahim would con- 
sent to occupy it, he knelt down, and as Dorothy 
listened to his simple and affecting prayer, she mar- 
veled how the parents that had taught it to him could 
have been judged worthy of death. When the boy 
had fallen asleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual 
countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, 
drew the bed-clothes up about his neck, and went 
away with a pensive gladness in her heart. 

Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emi- 
grants from the old country. He had remained in 
England during the first years of the civil war, in 
which he had borne some share as a cornet of dra- 
goons, under Cromwell. But when the ambitious de- 
signs of his leader began to develop themselves, he 
quitted the army of the parliament, and sought a re- 
fuge from the strife, which was no longer holy, among 
the people of his persuasion in the colony of Massa- 
chusetts. A more worldly consideration had perhaps 
an influence in drawing him thither; for New Eng- 
land offered advantages to men of unprosperous for- 
tunes, as well as to dissatisfied religionists, and Pear- 
son had hitherto found it difficult to provide for a wife 
and increasing family. To this supposed impurity of 
motive, the more bigoted Puritans were inclined to 
impute the removal by death of all the children, for 
whose earthly good the father had been over-thought- 
ful. They had left their native country blooming like 
roses, and like roses they had perished in a foreign 
soil. ‘Those expounders of the ways of Providence, 

VOL. I. 


98 THE GENTLE BOY. 


who had thus judged their brother, and attributed his 
domestic sorrows to his sin, were not more charitable 
when they saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill 
up the void in their hearts, by the adoption of an in- 
fant of the accursed sect. Nor did they fail to com- 
municate their disapprobation to Tobias; but the lat- 
ter, in reply, merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely 
boy, whose appearance and deportment were indeed 
as powerful arguments as could possibly have been 
adduced in his own favor. Even his beauty, how- 
ever, and his winning manners, sometimes produced 
an effect ultimately unfavorable ; for the bigots, when 
the outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been soften- 
ed and again grew hard, affirmed that no merely 
natural cause could have so worked upon them. 
Their antipathy to the poor infant was also increas- 
ed by the ill success of divers theological discussions, 
in which it was attempted to conyince him of the er- 
rors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful 
controversialist ; but the feeling of his religion was 
strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be en- 
ticed nor driven from the faith which his father had 
died for. ‘The odium of this stubbornness was shared 
in a great measure by the child’s protectors, insomuch 
that ‘Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began‘ to expe- 
rience a most bitter species of persecution, in the cold 
regards of many a friend whom they had valued. 
The common people manifested their opinions more 
openly. Pearson was a man of some consideration, 
being a Representative to the General Court, and an 
approved Lieutenant in the train-bands, yet within a 


THE GENTLE BOY. 99 


week after his adoption of [lbrahim, he had been both 
hissed and hooted. Once, also, when walking through 
a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from 
some invisible speaker; and it cried, ‘ What shall be 
done to the backslider ? Lo! the scourge is knotted 
for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord 
three knots!’ These insults irritated Pearson’s tem- 
per for the moment ; they entered also into his heart, 
and became imperceptible but powerful workers to- 
wards an end, which his most secret thought had not 
yet whispered. 
% # * * 

On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a 
member of their family, Pearson and-his wife deemed 
it proper that he should appear with them at public 
worship. They had anticipated some opposition to 
this measure from the boy, but he prepared himself 
in silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the 
new mourning suit which Dorothy had wrought for 
him. As the parish was then, and during many sub- 
sequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for 
the commencement of religious exercises was the beat 
ofa drum. At the first sound of that martial call to 
the place-of holy and quiet thoughts, Tobias and Do- 
rothy set forth, each holding a hand of little Ibrahim, 
like two parents linked together by the infant of their 
love. On their path through the leafless woods, they 
were overtaken by many persons of their acquaint- 
ance, all of whom avoided them, and passed by on 
the other side ; but a severer trial awaited their con- 
stancy when they had descended the hill and drew 


Fad 
100 THE GENTLE BOY. 


near the pine-built and undecorated house of prayer. 
Around the door, from which the drummer still sent 
forth his thundering summons, was drawn up a formi- 
dable phalanx, including several of the oldest mem- 
bers of the congregation, many of the middle-aged, 
and nearly all the younger males. Pearson found it 
difficult to sustain their united and disapproving gaze, 
but Dorothy, whose mind was differently circum- 
stanced, merely drew the boy.closer to her, and fal- 
tered not in her approach. As they entered the door, 
they overheard the muttered sentiments of the assem- 
blage, and when the reviling voices of the little child- 
ren smote Ilbrahim’s ear, he wept. 

The interior aspect of the meetinghouse was rude. 
The low ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked 
wood-work, and the undraperied pulpit, offered nothing 
to excite the devotion, which, without such external 
aids, often remains latent in the heart. The floor of 
the building was. occupied by rows of long, cushion- 
less benches, supplying the place of pews, and the 
broad-aisle formed a sexual division, impassable ex- 
cept by children beneath a certain age. 

Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the 
meetinghouse, and Ilbrahim, being within the years of 
infancy, was retained under the care of the latter. 
The wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their 
rusty cloaks as he passed by ; even the mild-featured 
maidens seemed to dread contamination ; and many a 
stern old man arose, and turned his repulsive and un- 


heavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the 


sanctuary were polluted by his presence. He wasa 


THE GENTLE BOY. 101 


sweet infant of the skies, that had strayed away from 
his home, and all the inhabitants of this miserable 
world closed up their impure hearts against him, drew 
back their earth-soiled garments from his touch, and 
said, ‘ We are holier than thou.’ 

Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted aothed 
and retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave 
and decorous demeanor, such as might befit a person 
of matured taste and understanding, who should find 
himself in a temple dedicated to some worship which 
he did not recognise, but felt himself bound to respect. 
The exercises had not yet commenced, however, 
when the boy’s attention was arrested by an event, 
apparently of trifling interest. A woman, having her 
face muffled in a hood, and a cloak drawn completely 
about her form, advanced slowly up the broad-aisle 
and took place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim’s 
faint color varied, his nerves fluttered, he was unable 
to turn his eyes from the muffled female. 

When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, 
the minister arose, and having turned the hour-glass 
which stood by the great bible, commenced his dis- 
course. He was now well stricken in years, a man 
of pale, thin countenance, and his grey hairs were 
closely covered by a black velvet scull-cap. In his 
younger days he had practically learned the meaning 
of persecution, from Archbishop Laud, and he was 
not now disposed to forget the lesson against which 
he had murmured then. Introducing the often dis- 
cussed subject of the Quakers, he gave a history of 
that sect, and a description of their tenets, in which 


102 THE GENTLE BOY. 


error predominated, and prejudice distorted the aspect 
of what was true. He adverted to the recent meas- 
ures in the province, and cautioned his hearers of 
weaker parts against calling in question the just se- 
verity, which God-fearing magistrates had at length 
been compelled to exercise. He spoke of the danger 
of pity, in some cases a commendable and christian 
virtue, but inapplicable to this pernicious sect. He 
observed that such was their devilish obstinacy in er- 
ror, that even the little children, the sucking babes, 
were hardened and desperate heretics. He affirmed 
that no man, without Heaven’s especial warrant, 
should attempt their conversion, lest while he lent his 
hand to draw them from the slough, he should himself 
be precipitated into its lowest depths. 

The sands of the second hour were principally in 
the lower half of the glass, when the sermon con- 
cluded. An approving murmur followed, and the 
clergyman, having given out a hymn, took his seat 
with much self-congratulation, and endeavored to 
read the effect of his eloquence in the visages of the 
people. But while voices from all parts of the house 
were tuning themselves to sing, a scene occurred, 
which, though not very unusual at that period in the 
province, happened to be without precedent in this 
parish. 

The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motion- 
less in the front rank of the audience, now arose, 
and with slow, stately, and unwavering step, ascend- 
éd the pulpit stairs. The quaverings of incipient 
harmony were hushed, and the divine sat in speech- 


THE GENTLE BOY. 103 


less and almost terrified astonishment, while she 
undid the door, and stood up in the sacred desk 
from which his maledictions had just been thundered. 
She then divested herself of the cloak and. hood, and 
appeared in a most singular array. A. shapeless 
robe of sackcloth was girded about her waist with a 
knotted cord; her raven hair fell down upon her 
shoulders, and its blackness was defiled by pale 
streaks of ashes, which she had strewn upon her 
head. Her eyebrows, dark and strongly defined, 
added to the deathly whiteness of a countenance 
which, emaciated with want, and wild with enthusi- 
asm and strange sorrows, retained no trace of earlier 
beauty. This figure stood gazing earnestly on the 
audience, and there was no sound, nor any move- 
ment, except a faint shuddering which every man 
observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious 
of in himself. At length, when her fit of inspira- 
tion came, she spoke, for the first few moments, in a 
low voice, and not invariably distinct utterance. Her 
discourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly 
entangled with her reason; it was a vague and 
incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed 
to spread its own atmosphere round the hearer’s soul, 
and to move his feelings by some influence uncon- 
nected with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful 
but shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like 
bright things moving in a turbid river; or a strong 
and singularly shaped idea leapt forth, and seized at 
once on the understanding or the heart. But the 
course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to 


104 THE GENTLE BOY. 


the persecutions of her sect, and from thence the 
step was short to her own peculiar sorrows. She was 
naturally a woman of mighty passions, and hatred 
and revenge now wrapped themselves in the garb of 
piety ; the character of her speech was changed, her 
images became distinct though wild, and her denun- 
ciations had an almost hellish bitterness. 

‘’lhe Governor and his mighty men,’ she said, 
‘have gathered together, taking counsel among them- 
selves and saying, ‘‘ What shall we do unto this peo- 
ple — even unto the people that have come into this 
land to put our iniquity to the blush?” And lo! 
the devil entereth into the council-chamber, like a 
lame man of low stature and gravely appareled, with 
a dark and twisted countenance, and a bright, down- 
cast eye. And he standeth up among the rulers; 
yea, he goeth to and fro, whispering to each; and 
every man lends his ear, for his word is “slay, 
slay!” But I say unto ye, Woe to them that slay! 
Woe to them that shed the blood of saints! Woe to 
them that have slain the husband, and cast forth the 
child, the tender infant, to wander homeless, and 
hungry, and cold, till he die; and have saved the 
mother alive, in the cruelty of their tender mercies! 
Woe to them in their life-time, cursed are they in 
the delight and pleasure of their hearts! Woe to 
them in their death-hour, whether it come swiftly 
with blood and violence, or after long and lingering” 
pain! Woe, in the dark house, in the rottenness of 
the grave, when the children’s children shall revile 
the ashes of the fathers! Woe, woe, woe, at the 


THE GENTLE BOY. 105 


judgment, when all the persecuted and all the slain in 
this bloody land, and the father, the mother, and the 
child, shall await them in a day that they cannot 
escape! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye 
whose hearts are moving with a power that ye know 
not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood ! 
Lift your voices, chosen ones, cry aloud, and call 
down a woe and a judgment with me !’ 

Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity 
which she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was 
silent. Her voice was succeeded by the hysteric 
shrieks of several women, but.the feelings of the au- 
dience generally had not been drawn onward in the 
current with her own. ‘They remained stupefied, 
stranded as it were, in the midst of a torrent, which 
deafened them by its roaring, but might not move 
them by its violence. The clergyman, who could 
not hitherto have ejected the usurper of his pulpit 
otherwise than by bodily force, now addressed her 
in the tone of just indignation and legitimate au- 
thority. 

-¢ Get you down, woman, from the holy place which 
you profane,’ he said. ‘Is it to the Lord’s house 
that you come to pour forth the foulness of your 
heart, and the inspiration of the devil? Get you 
down, and remember that the sentence of death is on 
you; yea, and shall be executed, were it but for this 
day’s work ?? 

‘I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utter- 
ance,’ replied she, in a depressed and even mild 
tone. ‘I have done my mission unto thee and to thy 


106 THE GENTLE BOY. 


people. Reward me with stripes, imprisonment, or 
death, as ye shall be permitted.’ 

The weakness of exhausted passion caused her 
steps to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. The 
people, in the meanwhile, were stirring to and fro on 
the floor of the house, whispering among themselves, 
and glancing towards the intruder. Many of them 
now recognised her as the woman who had assaulted 
the Governor with frightful language, as he passed. by 
the window of her prison; they knew, also, that she 
was adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved 
only by an involuntary banishment into the wilder- 
ness. ‘I'he new outrage, by which she had provoked 
her fate, seemed to render further lenity impossible ; 
and a gentleman in military dress, with a stout man 
of inferior rank, drew towards the door of the meet- 
ing-house, and awaited her approach. Scarcely did 
her feet press the floor, however, when an unexpected 
scene occurred. In that moment of her peril, when 
every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy 
pressed forth, and threw his arms round his mother. 

‘J am here, mother, it is I, and I will go with thee 
to prison,’ he exclaimed. 

She gazed at him witha doubtful and almost fright- 
ened expression, for she knew that the boy had been 
cast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his 
face again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one 
of the happy visions, with which her excited fancy 
had often deceived her, in the solitude of the desert, 
or in prison. But when she felt his hand warm with- 
in her own, and heard his little eloquence of child- 


THE GENTLE BOY. 107 


ish love, she began to know that she was yet a 
mother. 

‘Blessed art thou, my son,’ she sobbed. ‘ My heart 
was withered; yea, dead with thee and with thy fa- 
ther ; and now it leaps as in the first moment when 
I pressed thee to my bosom.’ 

She knelt down, and embraced him again and again, 
while the joy that could find no words, expressed it- 
self in broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to 
vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. ‘’he sor- 
rows of past years, and the darker peril that was nigh, 
cast not a, shadow on the brightness of that fleeting 
moment. Soon, however, the spectators saw a change 
‘upon her face, as the consciousness of her sad estate 
returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which 
joy had opened. By the words she uttered, it would 
seem that the indulgence of natural love had given 
her mind a momentary sense of its errors, and made 
her know how far she had strayed from duty, in fol- 
lowing the dictates of a wild fanaticism. 

‘In a doleful. hour art thou returned to me, poor 
boy,’ she said, ‘for thy mother’s path has gone dark- 
ening onward, till now the end is death. Son, son, 
I have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were 
tottering, and 1 have fed thee with the food that I was 
fainting for; yet I have ill performed a mother’s part 
by thee in life, and now I leave thee no inheritance 
but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through 
the world, and find all hearts closed against thee, and 
their sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. 


108 THE GENTLE BOY. 


My child, my child, how many a pang awaits thy 
gentle spirit, and I the cause of all!” 

She hid her face on Ilbrahim’s head, and her long, 
raven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourn- 
ing, fell down about him like a veil: A low and in- 
terrupted moan was the voice of her heart’s anguish, 
and it did not fail to move the sympathies of many 
who mistook their involuntary virtue for a sin. Sobs 
were audible in the female section of the house, and 
every man who was a father, drew his hand across 
his eyes. ‘Tobias Pearson was agitated and uneasy, 
but a certain feeling like the consciousness of guilt 
oppressed him, so that he could not go forth and offer 
himself as the protector of the child. Dorothy, how- 
ever, had watched her husband’s eye. Her mind 
was free from the influence that had begun to work 
on his, and she drew near the Quaker woman, and 
addressed her in the hearing of all the congregation. 

‘Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his 
mother,’ she said, taking Ilbrahim’s hand. * Provi- 
dence has signally marked out my husband to protect 
him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under our 
roof, now many days, till our hearts have grown very 
strongly unto him. Leave the tender child with us, 
and be at ease concerning his welfare.’ 

The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the 
boy closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in Doro- 
thy’s face. Her mild, but saddened features, and 
neat, matronly attire, harmonized together, and were 
like a verse of fireside poetry. Her very aspect 


THE GENTLE BOY. 109 


proved that she was blameless, so far as mortal could 
be so, in respect to God and man; while the enthu- 
siast, in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted 
cord, had as evidently violated the duties of. the 
present life and the future, by fixing her attention 
wholly on the latter. The two females, as they held 
each a hand of Ibrahim, formed a practical allegory ; 
it was rational piety and unbridled fanaticism, con- 
tending for the empire of a young heart. 

‘Thou art not of our people,’ said the Quaker, 
mournfully. 

‘ No, wetare not of your people,’ replied Dorothy, 
with mildness, ‘ but we are Christians, looking upward 
to the same Heaven with you. Doubt not that your 
boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing on 
our tender and prayerful guidance of him. ‘Thither, 
I trust, my own children have gone before me, for I 
also have been a mother; I am no longer so,’ she 
added, in a faltering tone, ‘ and your son will have all 
my care.’ 

‘But will ye lead him in the path which his parents 
have trodden?’ demanded the Quaker. ‘Can ye 
teach him the enlightened faith which his father has 
died for, and for which I, even I, am soon to become 
an unworthy martyr? The boy has been baptized in 
blood ; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon 
his forehead ? ” 

‘I will not deceive you,’ answered Dorothy. ‘If 
your child become our child, we must breed him up 
in the instruction which Heaven has imparted to us ; 
we must pray for him the prayers of our own faith ; 


110 THE GENTLE BOY. 


we must do towards him according to the dictates of 
our own consciences, and not of your’s. Were we to 
act otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even in 
complying with your wishes.’ 

The mother looked down upon her boy with a 
troubled countenance, and then turned her eyes up- 
ward to heaven. She seemed to pray internally, and 
the contention of her soul was evident. 

‘Friend,’ she said at length to Dorothy, ‘I doubt 
not that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness 
at thy hands. Nay, I will believe that even thy im- 
perfect lights may guide him to a better world ; for 
surely thou art on the path thither. But thou hast 
spoken of a husband. Doth he stand here among 
this multitude of people? Let him come forth, for I 
must know to whom IJ commit this most precious 
trust.’ 

She turned her face upon the male auditors, and 
after a momentary delay, Tobias Pearson came forth 
from among them. The Quaker saw the dress which 
marked his military rank, and shook her head ; but 
then she noted the hesitating air, the eyes that strug- 
gled with her own, and were vanquished ; the color 
that went and came, and could find no resting place. 
As she gazed, an unmirthful smile spread over her 
features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some 
desolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length 
she spake. . 

‘[ hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within 
me and saith, ‘‘ Leave thy child, Catharine, for his 
place is here, and go hence, for I have other work 


THE GENTLE BOY. | Ell 


for thee. Break the bonds of natural affection, mar- 
tyr thy love, and know that in all these things eternal 
wisdom hath its ends.” I go, friends, I go. Take 
ye my boy, my precious jewel. I go hence, trusting 
that all shall be well, and that even for his infant 
hands there is a labor in the vineyard.’ 

She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at 
first struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and 
tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his 
cheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her 
hands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready 
to depart. 

‘ Farewell, friends, in mine extremity,’ she said to 
Pearson and his wife; ‘the good deed ye have done 
me is a treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned a 
thousandfold hereafter. And farewell ye, mine ene- 
mies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as 
a hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for 
a moment. The day is coming, when ye shall call 
upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, 
and I will rise up and answer.’ 

She turned her steps towards the door, and the men, 
who had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew, 
and suffered her to pass. A general sentiment of pity 
overcame the virulence of religious hatred. Sancti- 
fied by her love, and her affliction, she went forth, 
and all the people gazed after her till she had jour- 
neyed up the hill, and was lost behind its brow. She 
went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to renew 
the wanderings of past years. For her voice had 
been already heard in many lands of Christendom ; 


112 THE GENTLE BOY. 


and she had pined in the cells of a Catholic Inquisi- 
tion, before she felt the lash, and lay in the dungeons 
of the Puritans. Her mission had extended also to 
the followers of the Prophet, and from them she had 
received the courtesy and kindness, which all the 
contending sects of our purer religion united to deny 
her. Her husband and herself had resided many 
months in Turkey, where even the Sultan’s counte- 
nance was gracious to them; in that pagan land, 
too, was Ilbrahim’s birthplace, and his oriental name 
was a mark of gratitude for the good deeds of an 
unbeliever. 
% # * % * 

When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all 
the rights over Ibrahim that could be delegated, their 
affection for him became, like the memory of their 
native land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece 
of the immovable furniture of their hearts. ‘The boy, 
also, after a week or two of mental disquiet, began to 
gratify his protectors, by many inadvertent proofs that 
he considered them as parents, and their house as 
home. Before the winter snows were melted, the 
persecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote 
and heathen country, seemed native in the New 
England cottage, and inseparable from the warmth 
and security of its hearth. Under the influence of 
kind treatment, and in the consciousness that he was 
loved, Ilbrahim’s demeanor lost a premature manli- 
ness, which had resulted from his earlier situation ; 
he became more childlike, and his natural character 
displayed itself with freedom. It was in many re- 


THE GENTLE BOY. 118 


spects a beautiful one, yet the disordered imagina- 
tions of both his father and mother had perhaps 
propagated a certain unhealthiness in the mind of the 
boy. In his general state, Ilbrahim would derive 
enjoyment from the most trifling events, and from 
every object about him; he seemed to discover rich 
treasures of happiness, by a faculty analogous to that 
of the witchhazel, which points to hidden gold where 
all is barren to the eye. His airy gaiety, coming to 
him from a thousand sources, communicated itself to 
the family, and Ilbrahim was like a domesticated 
sunbeam, brightening moody countenances, and chas- 
ing away the gloom from the dark corners of the 
cottage. ; 

On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure 
is also that of pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the 
boy’s prevailing temper sometimes yielded to mo- 
ments of deep depression. His sorrows could not 
always be followed up to their original source, but 
most frequently they appeared to flow, though IIbra- 
him was young to be sad for such a cause, from 
wounded love. ‘The flightiness of his mirth rendered 
him often guilty of offences against the decorum of a 
Puritan household, and on these occasions he did not 
invariably escape rebuke. But the slightest word of 
real bitterness, which he was infallible in distinguish- 
ing from pretended anger, seemed to sink into his 
heart and poison all his enjoyments, till he became 
sensible that he was entirely forgiven. Of thé malice, 
which generally accompanies a superfluity of sensi- 
tiveness, Ilbrahim, was altogether destitute; when 

VOL. I. 8 


os 


cd 


114 THE GENTLE BOY. 


trodden upon, he would not turn; when wounded, he 
could but die. His mind was wanting in the stamina 
for self-support; it was a plant that would, twine 
beautifully round something stronger than itself, but 
if repulsed, or torn away, it had no choice but to 
wither on the ground. Dorothy’s acuteness taught 
her that severity would crush the spirit of the child, 
and she nurtured him with the gentle care of one 
who handles a butterfly. Her husband manifested 
an equal affection, although it grew daily less pro- 
ductive of familiar caresses. 

The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard 
to the Quaker infant and his protectors, had not un- 
dergone a favorable change, in spite of the momen- 
tary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained 
over their sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of 
which he was the object, Were very grievous to Ilbra- 
him, especially when any circumstance made him 
sensible that the children, his equals in age, partook 
of the enmity of their parents. His tender and social 
nature had already overflowed in attachments to 
everything about him, and still there was a residue of 
unappropriated love, which he yearned to bestow 
upon the little ones who were taught to hate him. As 
the warm days of spring came on, Ibrahim was ac- 
customed to remain for hours, silent and inactive, 
within hearing of the children’s voices at their play ; 
yet, with his usual delicacy of feeling, he avoided 
their notice, and would flee and hide himself from 
the smallest individual among them. Chance, how- 
ever, at length seemed to open a medium of commu- 


THE GENTLE BOY. 115 


fication between his heart and theirs; it was by 
means of a boy about two years older than Ibrahim, 
who was injured by a fall from a tree in the vicinity 
of Pearson’s habitation. As the sufferer’s own home 
was at some distance, Dorothy willingly received him 
under her roof, and became his tender and careful 
nurse. 

Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much 
skill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred him, 
in other circumstances, from gttempting to make a 
friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter 
immediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it 
required some examination to discover that the cause 
was a very slight distortion of the mouth, and the 
irregular, broken line, and near approach of the eye- 
brows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deform- 
ities, was an almost inzperceptible twist of every 
joint, and the uneven prominence of the breast ; form- 
ing a body, regular in its general outline, but faulty in 
almost all its details. The disposition of the boy was 
sullen and reserved, and the village schoolmaster 
stigmatized him as obtuse in intellect ; although, at a 
later period of life, he evinced ambition and very 
peculiar talents. But whatever might be his personal 
or moral irregularities, Ilbrahim’s heart seized upon, 
and clung to him, from the moment that he was 
brought wounded into the cottage; the child of perse- 
cution seemed to compare his own fate with that of 
the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of 
misfortune had created a sort of relationship between 
them. Food, rest, and the fresh air, for which he 


116 THE GENTLE BOY. 


languished, were neglected; he nestled continually 
by the bed-side of the little stranger, and, with a fond 
jealousy, endeavored to be the medium of all the 
cares that were bestowed upon him. As the boy be- 
came convalescent, Ilbrahim contrived games suitable 
to his situation, or amused him by a faculty which he 
had perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric 
birthplace. It was that of reciting imaginary adven- 
tures, on the spur of the moment, and apparently in 
inexhaustible succesyon. His tales were of course 
monstrous, disjointed, and without aim; but they 
were curious on account of a vein of human tender- 
ness, which ran through them all, and was like a 
sweet, familiar face, encountered in the midst of 
wild and unearthly scenery. ‘The auditor paid much 
attention to these romances, and sometimes inter- 
rupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents, 
displaying shrewdness above his years, mingled with 
a moral obliquity which grated very harshly against 
Ilbrahim’s instinctive rectitude. Nothing, however, 
could arrest the progress of the latter’s affection, and 
there were many proofs that it met with a response 
from the dark and stubborn nature on which it was 
lavished. The boy’s parents at length removed him, 
to complete his cure under their own roof. 

Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his de- 
parture; but he made anxious and continual inquiries 
respecting him, and informed himself of the day 
when he was to reappear among his playmates. On 
a pleasant summer afternoon, the children of the 
neighborhood had assembled in the little forest- 


& 


THE GENTLE BOY. 117 


crowned amphitheatre behind the meetinghouse, and 
the recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. 
The glee of a score of untainted bosoms was heard 
in light and airy voices, which danced among the 
trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men 
of this weary world, as they journeyed by the spot, 
marveled why life, beginning in such brightness, 
should proceed in gloom; and their hearts, or their 
imaginations, answered them and said, that the bliss 
of childhood gushes from its innocence. But it hap- 
pened that an unexpected addition was made to the 
heavenly little band. It was Ilbrahim, who came 
towards the children, with a look of sweet confidence 
on his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested 
his love to one of them, he had no longer to fear a 
repulse from their society. A hush came over their 
mirth, the moment they beheld him, and they stood 
whispering to each other while he drew nigh; but, 
all at once, the devil of their fathers entered into the 
unbreeched fanatics, and, sending up a fierce, shrill 
ery, they rushed upon the poor Quaker child. In an 
instant, he was the centre of a brood of baby-fiends, 
who lifted sticks against him, pelted him with stones, 
and displayed an instinct of destruction, far more 
loathsome than the blood-thirstiness of manhood. 
The invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from 
the tumult, crying out with a loud voice, ‘ Fear not, 
Ilbrahim, come hither and take my hand;’ and his 
unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After 
watching the victim’s struggling approach, with a 
calm smile and unabashed eye, the foul-hearted little 


118 THE GENTLE BOY. 


villain lifted his staff, and struck Ilbrahim on the 
mouth, so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. 
The poor child’s arms had been raised to guard his 
head from the storm of blows; but now he dropped 
them at once. His persecutors beat him down, tram- 
pled upon him, dragged him by his long, fair locks, 
and Ilbrahim was on the point of becoming as verita- 
ble a martyr as ever entered bleeding into heaven. 
The uproar, however, attracted the notice of a few 
neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of res- 
cuing the little heretic, and of conveying him to Pear- 
son’s door. 

Ilbrahim’s bodily harm was severe, but long and 
careful nursing accomplished his recovery ; the injury 
done to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though 
not so visible. Its signs were principally of a nega- 
tive character, and to be discovered only by those 
who had previously known him. His gait was thence- 
forth slow, even, and unvaried by the sudden bursts 
of sprightlier motion, which had once corresponded 
to his overflowing gladness; his countenance was 
heavier, and its former play of expression, the dance 
of sunshine reflected from moving water, was de- 
stroyed by the cloud over his existence ; his notice 
was attracted in a far less degree by passing events, 
and he appeared to find greater difficulty in compre- 
hending what was new to him, than at a happier 
period. A stranger, founding his judgment upon 
these circumstances, would have said that the dul- 
ness of the child’s intellect widely contradicted the 
promise of his features; but the secret was in the 


THE GENTLE BOY. 119 


direction of Ilbrahim’s thoughts, which were brooding 
within him when they should naturally have been 
wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy to revive 
his former sportiveness was the single occasion, on 
which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display 
of grief; he burst into passionate weeping, and ran 
and hid himself, for his heart had become so misera- 
bly sore, that even the hand of kindness tortured it 
like fire. Sometimes, at night and probably in his 
dreams, he was heard to cry, ‘Mother! Mother!” 
as if her place, which a stranger had supplied while 
Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his 
extreme affliction. Perhaps, among the many life- 
weary wretches then upon the earth, there was not 
one who combined innocence and misery like this 
poor, broken-hearted infant, so soon the victim of his 
own heavenly nature. 

While this melancholy change had taken place in 
Ilbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different 
character had come to its perfection in his adopted 
father. The incident with which this tale commences 
found Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet 
mentally disquieted, and longing for a more fervid 
faith than he possessed. The first effect of his kind- 
ness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, 
an incipient love for the child’s whole sect; but joined 
to this, and resulting perhaps from self-suspicion, was 
a proud and ostentatious contempt of their tenets 
and practical extravagances. In the course of much 
thought, however, for the subject struggled irresistibly 
into his mind, the foolishness of the doctrine began to 


120 THE GENTLE BOY. 


be less evident, and the points which had particularly — 
offended his reason assumed another aspect, or van- 
ished entirely away. The work within him appeared 
to go even while he slept, and that which had been a 
doubt, when he laid down to rest, would often hold 
the place of a truth, confirmed by some forgotten de- 
monstration, when he recalled his thoughts in the 
morning. But while he was thus becoming assimila- 
ted to the enthusiasts, his contempt, in nowise decreas- 
ing towards them, grew very fierce against himself ; 
he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance 
wore a sneer, and that every word addressed to him 
was a gibe. Such was his state of mind at the period 
of Ilbrahim’s misfortune ; and the emotions consequent 
upon that event completed the change, of which the 
child had been the original instrument. 

In the mean time neither the fierceness of the perse- 
cutors, nor the infatuation of their victims, had de- 
creased. The dungeons were never empty; the 
streets of almost every village echoed daily with the 
lash ; the life of a woman, whose mild and christian 
spirit no cruelty could embitter, had been sacrificed ; 
and more innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands, 
that were so often raised in prayer. Larly after the 
Restoration, the English Quakers represented to 
Charles II. that a ‘vein of blood was open in his 
dominions ;’ but though the displeasure of the volup- 
tuous king was roused, his interference was not 
prompt. And now the tale must stride forward over 
many months, leaving Pearson to encounter ignominy 
and misfortune ; his wife to a firm endurance of a 


THE GENTLE BOY. 121 


thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop 
like a cankered rose-bud ; his mother to wander ona 
mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust which 
can be committed to a woman. 

% % ® * * 

A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened 
over Pearson’s habitation, and there were no cheerful 
faces to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. The 
fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy 
light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, 
lay ready to be cast upon the embers. But the apart- 
ment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of 
much of the homely wealth which had once adorned 
it; for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own 
neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished 
the owner. And with the furniture of peace, the im- 
plements of war had likewise disappeared ; the sword 
was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away for 
ever; the soldier had done with battles, and might not 
lift so much as his naked hand to guard his head. But 
the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it 
rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the 
persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages. 

He who listened, while the other read, was the 
master of the house, now emaciated in form, and alter- 
ed as to the expression and healthiness of his coun- 
tenance ; for his mind had dwelt too long among 
visionary thoughts, and his body had been worn by 
imprisonment and stripes. The hale and weather- 
beaten old man, who sat beside him, had sustained less 
injury froma far longer course of the same mode of 


122 THE GENTLE BOY. 


life. In person he was tall and dignified, and, which 
alone would have made him hateful to the Puritans, 
his grey locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed 
hat, and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read 
the sacred page, the snow drifted against the windows, 
or eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast 
kept laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped 
fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the 
wind struck the hill at a certain angle, and swept down 
by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was 
the most doleful that can be conceived ; it came as if 
the Past were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed 
each a whisper, as if the Desolation of Ages were 
breathed in that one lamenting sound. 

The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining 
however his hand between the pages which he had 
been reading, while he looked steadfastly at Pearson. 
The attitude and features of the latter might have in- 
dicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his 
forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed, 
and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a ner- 
vous agitation. 

‘Friend Tobias,’ inquired the old man, compassion- 
ately, ‘hast thou found no comfort in these many 
blessed passages of Scripture ?’ 

‘ Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar 
off and indistinct,’ replied Pearson without lifting his 
eyes. ‘ Yea, and when I have hearkened carefully, 
the words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for 
another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the 
book,’ he added, in atone of sullen bitterness. ‘I 


THE GENTLE BOY. 123 


have no part in its consolations, and they do but fret 
my sorrow the more.’ 

‘Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never 
known the light,’ said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but 
with mildness. ‘Art thou he that wouldst be content 
to give all, and endure all, for conscience’ sake ; de- 
siring even peculiar trials, that thy faith might be puri- 
fied, and thy heart weaned from worldly desires And 
wilt thou sink beneath an affliction which happens 
alike to them that have their portion here below, and 
to them that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint not, 
for thy burthen is yet light.’ 

‘It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!” ex- 
claimed Pearson, with the impatience of a variable 
spirit. ‘From my youth upward I have been a man 
marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day 
after day, I have endured sorrows, such as others 
know not in their life-time. And now I speak not of 
the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to 
ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to 
danger, want, and nakedness. All this I could have 
borne, and counted myself blessed. But when my 
heart was desolate with many losses, I fixed it upon 
the child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me 
than all my buried ones; and now he too must die as 
if my love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed 
man, and I will lay me down in the dust, and lift up 
my head no more.’ 

‘Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to re- 
buke thee; for I also have had my hours of darkness, 
wherein I have murmured against the cross,’ said the 


124 THE GENTLE BOY. 


old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of 
distracting his companion’s thoughts from his own 
sorrows. ‘Even of late was the light obscured with- 
in me, when the men of blood had banished me on 
pain of death, and the constables led me onward from 
village to village, towards the wilderness. A strong 
and cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they 
sunk deep into the flesh, and thou mightst have track- 
ed every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood 
that followed. As we went on’ — | 

‘ Have I not borne all this; and have I murmured ?? 
interrupted Pearson, impatiently. 

‘Nay, friend, but hear me,’ continued the other. 
‘ As we journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so 
that no man could see the rage of the persecutors, or 
the constancy of my endurance, though, Heaven for- 
bid that I should glory therein. The lights began to 
glimmer in the cottage windows, and I could discern 
the inmates as they gathered, in comfort and security, 
every man with his wife and children by their own 
evening hearth. At length we came to a tract of fer- 
tile land; in the dim light, the forest was not visible 
around it; and behold! there was a straw-thatched 
dwelling, which bore the very aspect of my home, 
far over the wild ocean, far in our own England. 
Then came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remem- 
brances that were like death to my soul. The happi- 
ness of my early days was painted to me; the dis- 
quiet of my manhood, the altered faith of my de- 
clining years. I remembered how I had been moved 
to go forth a wanderer, when my daughter, the young- 


THE GENTLE BOY. 125 


est, the dearest of my flock, lay on her dying bed, 
and ’ — 

‘Couldst thou obey the command at such a mo- 
ment?’ exclaimed Pearson, shuddering. 

‘ Yea, yea,’ replied the old man, hurriedly. ‘I was 
kneeling by her bed-side when the voice spoke loud 
within me; but immediately I rose, and took my staff, 
and gat me gone. Oh! that it were permitted me to 
forget her woeful look, when I thus withdrew my arm, 
and left her journeying through the dark valley alone! 
for her soul was faint, and she had leaned upon my 
prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed 
by the thought that I had been an erring christian, 
and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her 
pale, dying features, seemed to stand by me and 
whisper, ‘‘ Father, you are deceived; go home and 
shelter your grey head.” Oh! thou, to whom I have 
looked in my farthest wanderings,’ continued the 
Quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven, ‘ inflict 
not upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmiti- 
gated agony of my soul, when I believed that all I had 
done and suffered for Thee was at the instigation of a 
mocking fiend! But I yielded not; I knelt down and 
wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more 
fiercely into the flesh. My prayer was heard, and I 
went on in peace and joy towards the wilderness.’ 

The old man, though his fanaticism had generally 
all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while 
reciting this tale ; and his unwonted emotion seemed 
to rebuke and keep down that of hiscompanion. They 
sat in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining 


126 THE GENTLE BOY. 


perhaps, in its red embers, new scenes of persecution 
yet to be encountered. ‘The snow still drifted hard 
against the windows, and\sometimes, as the blaze of 
the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious 
chimney and hissed upon the hearth. A cautious 
footstep might now and then be heard in a neighboring 
apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of 
both Quakers to the door which led thither. ‘When a 
fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his thoughts, 
by a natural association, to homeless travellers on such 
a night, Pearson resumed the conversation. 

‘T have well nigh sunk under my own share of this 
trial,’ observed he, sighing heavily ; ‘ yet I would that 
it might be doubled to me, if so the child’s mother 
could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and 
many, but this will be the sorest of all.’ 

‘Fear not for Catharine,’ replied the old Quaker ; 
‘for | know that valiant woman, and have seen how 
she can bear the cross. A mother’s heart, indeed, is 
strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with 
her faith ; but soon she will stand up and give thanks 
that her son has been thus early an accepted sacri- 
fice. The boy hath done his work, and she will feel 
that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and 
her. Blessed, blessed are they, that with so little suf- 
fering can enter into peace !” 

The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a 
portentous sound ; it was a quick and heavy knocking 
at the outer door. Pearson’s wan countenance grew 
paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him 
what to dread ; the old man, on the other hand, stood 


THE GENTLE BOY. 127 


up erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried 
soldier who awaits his enemy. 

‘The men of blood have come to seek me,’ he 
observed, with calmness. ‘They have heard how I 
was moved to return from banishment; and now am 
I to be led to prison, and thence to death. Itis an 
end I have long looked for. I will open unto them, 
lest they say, “‘ Lo, he feareth!”” 

‘Nay, I will present myself before them,’ said 
Pearson, with recovered fortitude. ‘It may be that 
they seek me alone, and know not that thou abidest 
with me.’ 

‘Let us go boldly, both one and the other,’ re- 
joined his companion. ‘It is not fitting that thou or 
I should shrink.’ 

They therefore proceeded through the entry to the 
door, which they opened, bidding the applicant 
‘Come in, in God’s name!’ A furious blast of wind 
drove the storm into their faces, and extinguished the 
lamp; they had barely time to discern a figure, so 
white from head to foot with the drifted snow, that it 
seemed like Winter’s self, come in human shape to 
seek refuge from its own desolation. 

‘Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it 
may,’ said Pearson. ‘It must needs be pressing, 
since thou comest on such a bitter night.’ 

‘Peace be with this household,’ said the stranger, 
when they stood on the floor of the inner apartment. 

Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slum- 
bering embers of the fire, till they sent up ‘a clear 
and lofty blaze; it was a female voice that had 


128 THE GENTLE BOY. 


spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold 
and wintry, in that comfortable light. 

‘Catharine, blessed woman,’ exclaimed the old 
man, ‘art thou come to this darkened land again! 
art thou come to bear a valiant testimony as in 
former years? The scourge hath not prevailed 
against thee, and from the dungeon hast thou come 
forth triumphant; but strengthen, strengthen now 
thy heart, Catharine, for Heaven will prove thee yet 
this once, ere thou go to thy reward.’ | 

‘ Rejoice, friends!’ she replied. ‘' Thou who hast 
long been of our people, and thou whom a little child 
hath led to us, rejoice! Lo! I come, the messenger 
of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is over- 
past. The heart of the king, even Charles, hath been 
moved in gentleness towards us, and he hath sent 
forth his letters to stay the hands of the men of 
blood. A ship’s company of our friends hath arrived 
at yonder town, and I also sailed joyfully among 
them.’ 

As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about 
the room, in search of him for whose sake security 
was dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to 
the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the pain- 
ful task assigned him. 

‘ Sister,’ he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm 
tone, ‘ thou tellest us of His love, manifested in tem- 
poral good ; and now must we speak to thee of that 
self-same love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto, 
Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a dark- 
some and difficult path, and leading an infant by the 


THE GENTLE BOY. 129 


hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward 
continually, but still the cares of that little child have 
drawn thine eyes, and thy affections, to the earth. 
Sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps 
shall impede thine own no more.” 

But the unhappy mother was not thus to be con- 
soled ; she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the 
very snow that hung drifted into her hair. The firm 
old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping 
his eye upon hers, as if to repress any outbreak of 
passion. 

‘IT am a woman, I am but a woman; will He try 
me above my strength ?’ said Catharine, very quickly, 
and almost in a whisper. ‘I have been wounded 
sore; I have suffered much ; many things in the body, 
many in the mind ; crucified in myself, and in them 
that were dearest to me. Surely,’ added she, with a 
long shudder, ‘ He hath spared me in this one thing.’ 
She broke forth with sudden and irrepressible vio- 
lence. ‘Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God 
done tome? Hath He cast me down never to rise 
again? Hath He crushed my very heart in his hand? 
And thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast 
thou fulfilled thy trust? Give me back the boy, well, 
sound, alive, alive ; or earth and heaven shall avenge 
me!’ 

The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by 
the faint, the very faint voice of a child. 

On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to 
his aged guest, and to Dorothy, that Ilbrahim’s brief 
and troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. The 

VOL. I. 9 


1380 THE GENTLE BOY. 


two former would willingly have remained by him, to 
make use of the prayers and pious discourses which 
they deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if 
they be impotent as to the departing traveller’s recep- 
tion in the world whither he goes, may at least sus- 
tain him in bidding adieu to earth. But though II- 
brahim uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the 
faces that looked upon him; so that Dorothy’s entrea- 
ties, and their own conviction that the child’s feet 
might tread heaven’s pavement and not soil it, had 
induced the two Quakers to remove. Ibrahim then 
closed his eyes and grew calm, and, except for now 
and then, a kind and low word to his nurse, might 
have been thought to slumber. As night-fall came 
on, however, and the storm began to rise, something 
seemed to trouble the repose of the boy’s mind, and 
to render his sense of hearing active and acute. Ifa 
passing wind lingered to shake the casement, he 
strove to turn his head towards it; if the door jarred 
to and fro’ upon its hinges, he looked long and 
anxiously thitherward ; if the heavy voice of the old. 
man, as he read the scriptures, rose but a little 
higher, the child almost held his dying breath to 
listen ; if a snow-drift swept by the cottage, with a 
sound like the trailing of a garment, Ilbrahim seemed 
to watch that some visitant should enter. 

But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever 
secret hope had agitated him, and, with one low, com- 
plaining whisper, turned his cheek upon the pillow. 
He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness, 
and besought her to draw near him ; she did so, and 


THE GENTLE BOY. 131 


Ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it 
with a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he 
retained it. At intervals, and without disturbing the 
repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling 
passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but 
somewhat cool wind had breathed upon him, and 
made him shiver. As the boy thus led her by the 
hand, in his quiet progress over the borders of eter- 
nity, Dorothy almost imagined that she could discern 
the near, though dim delightfulness, of the home he 
was about to reach; she would not have enticed the 
little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself 
that she must leave him and return. But just when 
Ilbrahim’s feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise, 
he heard a voice behind him, and it recalled him a 
few, few paces of the weary path which he had tra- 
velled. As Dorothy looked upon his features, she 
perceived that their placid expression was again dis- 
turbed ; her own thoughts had been so wrapped in 
him, that all sounds of the storm, and of human 
speech, were lost to her; but when Catharine’s 
shriek pierced through the room, the igi strove to 
raise himself. 

‘Friend, she is come! Open unto her!’ cried he. 

In a moment, his mother was kneeling by the bed- 
side ; she drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled 
there, with no violence of joy, but contentedly as if 
he were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into 
her face, and reading its agony, said, with feeble ear- 
nestness, 


182 THE GENTLE BOY. 


‘Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now.’ 

And with these words, the gentle boy was dead. 
* % % % * 

The king’s mandate to stay the New England per- 
secutors was effectual in preventing further martyr: 
doms; but the colonial authorities, trusting in the 
remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the sup- 
posed instability of the royal government, shortly re- 
newed their severities in all other respects. Catha- 
rine’s fanaticism had become wilder by the sundering 
of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lift- 
ed, there was she to receive the blow ; and whenever 
a dungeon was unbarred, thither she came, to cast 
herself upon the floor. But in process of time, a 
more christian spirit—a spirit of forbearance, though 
not of cordiality or approbation, began to pervade the 
land in regard to the persecuted sect. And then, 
when the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her rather in pity 
than in wrath; when the matrons fed her with the 
fragments of their children’s food, and offered her a 
lodging on a hard and lowly bed; when no little 
crowd of school-boys left their sports to cast stones 
after the roving enthusiast ; then did Catharine return 
to Pearson’s dwelling, and made that her home. 

As if Ilbrahim’s sweetness yet lingered round his 
ashes ; as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven 
to teach his parent a true religion, her fierce and vin- 
dictive nature was softened by the same griefs which 
had once irritated it. When the course of years had 
made the features ofthe unobtrusive mourner familiar 


THE GENTLE BOY. 133 


in the settlement, she became a subject of not deep, 
but general interest ; a being on whom the otherwise 
superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. 
Every one spoke of her with that degree of pity which 
it is pleasant to experience ; every one was ready to 
do her the little kindnesses, which are not costly, yet 
manifest good will; and when at last she died, a long 
train of her once bitter persecutors followed her, with 
decent sadness and tears that were not painful, to her 
place by Ilbrahim’s green and sunken grave. 


Be, he ~ 
snieenaatto eld Tra 
Sia sats 2 am | 
iat ; 


oF ve 





MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


i tA, MST 





MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


A youne fellow, a tobacco-pedler by trade, was on 
his way from Morristown, where he had dealt largely 
with the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the vil- 
lage of Parker’s Falls, on Salmon River. He had a 
neat little cart, painted green, with a box of cigars 
depicted on each side-panel, and an Indian chief, 
holding a pipe and a golden, tobacco-stalk, on the 
rear. The pedler drove a smart little mare, and was 
a young man of excellent character, keen at a bar- 
gain, but none the worse liked by the Yankees; who, 
as I have heard them say, would rather be shaved 
with a-sharp razor than a dull one. Especially was 
he beloved by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, 
whose favor he used to court by presents of the best 
smoking tobacco in his stock ; knowing well that the 
country lasses of New England are generally great 


138 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


performers on pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in 
the course of my story, the pedler was inquisitive, 
and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the 
news and anxious to tell it again. 

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobac- 
co pedler, whose name was Dominicus Pike, had 
travelled seven miles through a solitary piece of 
woods, without speaking a word to any body but him- 
self and his little grey mare. It being nearly seven 
o’clock, he was as eager to hold a morning gossip, as 
a city shopkeeper to read the morning paper. An 
opportunity seemed at hand, when after lighting a 
cigar with a sun-glass, he looked up, and perceived 
a man coming over the brow of the hill, at the foot 
of which the pedler had stopped his green cart. Do- 
minicus watched him as he descended, and noticed 
that he carried a bundle over his shoulder on the end 
of a stick, and travelled with a weary, yet determined 
pace. He did not look as if he had started in the 
freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, 
and meant to do the same all day. 

‘Good morning, mister,’ said Dominicus, when 
within speaking distance. ‘ You go a pretty good 
jog. Whats the latest news at Parker’s Falls ?’ 

The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over 
his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did 
not come from Parker’s Falls, which, as being the 
limit of his own day’s journey, the pedler had natu- 
rally mentioned in his inquiry. 

‘Well, then,’ rejoined Dominicus Pike, ‘ let’s have 
the latest news where you did come from. I’m not 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 139 


particular about Parker’s Falls. Any place will 
answer.’ 

Being thus importuned, the traveller — who was as 
ill-looking a fellow as one would desire to meet, in a 
solitary piece of woods — appeared to hesitate a little, 
as if he was either searching his memory for news, 
or weighing the expediency of telling it. At last 
mounting on the step of the cart, he whispered in the 
ear of Dominicus, though he might have shouted 
aloud, and no other mortal would have heard him. 

‘I do remember one little trifle of news,’ said he. 
‘Old Mr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murder- 
ed in his orchard, at eight o’clock last night, by an 
Irishman and a nigger. They strung him up to the 
branch of a St. Michel’s pear tree, where nobody 
would find him till the morning.’ 

As soon as this horrible intelligence was commu- 
nicated, the stranger betook himself to his journey 
again, with more speed than ever, not even turning 
his head when Dominicus invited him to smoke a 
Spanish cigar and relate all the particulars. ‘The 
pedler whistled to his mare and went up the hill, 
pondering on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham, 
whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold 
him many a bunch of long nines, and a great deal of 
pig-tail, lady’s twist, and fig tobacco. He was rather 
astonished at the rapidity with which the news had 
spread. Kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant 
in a straight line; the murder had been perpetrated 
only at eight o’clock the preceding night; yet Do- 
minicus had heard of it at seven in the morning, 


140 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


when, in all probability, poor Mr. Higginbotham’s 
own family had but just discovered his corpse, hang- 
ing on the St. Micheel’s pear tree. The stranger on 
foot must have worn seven-league boots, to travel at 
such a rate. 

‘Jll news flies fast, they say,’ thought Dominicus 
Pike ; ‘ but this beats railroads. The fellow ought 
to be hired to go express with the President’s Mes- 
sage.’ 

The difficulty was solved, by supposing that the 
narrator had made a mistake of one day, in the date 
of the occurrence ; so that our friend did not hesitate 
to introduce the story atevery tavern and country store 
along the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish 
wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. 
He found himself invariably the first bearer of the 
intelligence, and was so pestered with questions that 
he could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became: 
quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece 
of corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a 
trader ; and a former clerk of his to whom Dominicus 
related the facts, testified that the old gentleman was 
accustomed to return home through the orchard, 
about night-fall, with the money and valuable papers 
of the store in his pocket. The clerk manifested but 
little grief at Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe, hinting, 
what the pedler had discovered in his own dealings 
with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as 
a vise. His property would descend to a pretty niece 
who was now keeping school in Kimballton. 

What with telling the news for the public good, and 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 141 


driving bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much 
delayed on the road, that he chose to put up at a 
tavern, about five miles short of Parker’s Falls. After 
supper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated 
himself in the bar-room, and went through the story 
of the murder, which had grown so fast that it took 
him half an hour to tell. There were as many as 
twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom received 
it all for gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly 
farmer, who had arrived on horseback a short time 
before, and was now seated in a corner, smoking his 
pipe. When the story was concluded, he rose up 
very deliberately, brought his chair right in front of 
Dominicus, and stared him full in the face, puffing 
out’ the vilest tobacco smoke the pedler had ever 
smelt. | 
‘Will you make affidavit,’ demanded he, in the 
tone of a country justice taking an examination, ‘ that 
old Squire Higginbotham of Kimballton was murder- 
ed in his orchard the night before last, and found 
hanging on his great pear tree yesterday morning ?? 
‘I tell the story as I heard it, mister,’ answered 
Dominicus, dropping his half-burnt cigar; ‘I don’t 
say that I saw the thing done. So I can’t take my 
oath that he was murdered exactly in that way.’ 
‘But I can take mine,’ said the farmer, ‘ that if 
Squire Higginbotham was murdered night before last, 
I drank a glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. 
Being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store, 
as I was riding by, and treated me, and then asked 
me to do a little business for him on the road. He 


142 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


did’nt seem to know any more about his own murder 
than I did.’ 

‘ Why, then it can’t be a fact!’ exclaimed Domini- 
cus Pike. 

‘I guess he’ d have mentioned, if it was,’ said the 
old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the 
corner, leaving Dominicus quite down in the mouth. 

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higgin- 
botham! The pedler had no heart to mingle in the 
conversation any more, but comforted himself with a 
glass of gin and water, and went to bed, where, all 
night long, he dreamt of hanging on the St. Micheel’s 
pear tree. To avoid the old farmer (whom he so 
detested, that his suspension would have pleased him 
better than Mr. Higginbotham’s), Dominicus rose in 
the gray of the morning, put the little mare into the 
green cart, and trotted swiftly away towards Parker’s 
Falls. The fresh breeze, the dewy road, and the 
pleasant summer dawn, revived his spirits, and might 
have encouraged him to repeat the old story, had 
there been any body awake to hear it. But he met 
neither ox-team, light wagon, chaise, horseman, nor 
foot-traveller, till just as he crossed Salmon River, a 
man came trudging down to the bridge with a bundle 
over his shoulder, on the end of a stick. 

‘Good morning, mister,’ said the pedler, reining in 
his mare. ‘If you come from Kimballton or that 
neighborhood, may be you can tell me the real fact 
about this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the 
old fellow actually murdered two or three nights ago, 
by an Irishman anda nigger ?’ 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 143 


Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to ob- 
serve at first, that the stranger himself had a deep 
tinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden ques- 
tion, the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its 
yellow hue becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking 
and stammering, he thus replied : — 

‘No! no! There was no colored man! It was 
an Irishman that hanged him last night, at eight 
o'clock. I came away at seven! His folks can’t 
have looked for him in the orchard yet.’ 

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he 
interrupted himself, and though he seemed weary 
enough before, continued his journey at a pace, 
which would have kept the pedler’s mare on a smart 
trot. Dominicus stared after him in great perplexity. 
If the murder had not been committed till Tuesday 
night, who was the prophet that had foretold it, in all 
its circumstances, on Tuesday morning? If Mr. 
Higginbotham’s corpse were not yet discovered by 
his own family, how came the mulatto, at above 
thirty miles distance, to know that he was hanging in 
the orchard, especially as he had left Kimballton be- 
fore the unfortunate man was hanged at all. These 
ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger’s sur- 
prise and terror, made Dominicus think of raising a 
hue and cry after him, as an accomplice in the mur- 
der; since a murder, it seemed, had really been 
perpetrated. 

‘ But let the poor devil go,’ thought the pedler. ‘I 
don’t want his black blood on my head; and hanging 
the nigger wouldn’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham. Un- 


144 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


hang the old gentleman! It’s a sin, I know; but I 
should hate to have him come to life a second time, 
and give me the lie!” 

With these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into 
the street of Parker’s Falls, which, as every body 
‘knows, is as thriving a village as three cotton factories 
and a slitting mill can make it. ‘The machinery was 
not in motion, and but a few of the shop doors un- 
barred, when he alighted in the stable yard of the tav- 
ern, and made it his first business to order the mare 
four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was 
to impart Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe to the ostler. 
He deemed it advisable, however, not to be too posi- 
tive as to the date of the direful fact, and also to be 
uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an Irishman 
and a mulatto, or by the son of Erin alone. Neither 
did he profess to relate it on his own authority, or 
that of any one person; but mentioned it as a report 
generally diffused. 

The story ran through the town like fire among 
girdled trees, and became so much the universal talk, 
that nobody could tell whence it had originated. Mr. 
Higginbotham was as well known at Parker’s Falls 
as any citizen of the place, being part owner of the 
slitting mill, and a considerable stockholder in the 
cotton factories. The inhabitants felt their own pros- 
perity interested in his fate. Such was the excite- 
ment, that the Parker’s Falls Gazette anticipated its 
regular day of publication, and came out with half a 
form of blank paper anda column of double pica em- 


phasized with capitals, and headed HORRID MUR- 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 145 


DER OF MR. HIGGINBOTHAM! Among other 
dreadful details, the printed account described the 
mark of the cord round the dead man’s neck, and 
stated the number of thousand dollars of which he 
had been robbed; there was much pathos also about 
the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one 
fainting fit to another, ever since her uncle was found 
hanging on the St. Micheel’s pear tree with his pock- 
ets inside out. The village poet likewise commemo- 
rated the young lady’s grief in seventeen stanzas of 
a ballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and in con- 
sideration of Mr. Higginbotham’s claims on the town, 
determined to issue handbills, offering a reward of 
five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his mur- 
derers, and the recovery of the stolen property. 
Meanwhile, the whole population of Parker’s Falls, 
consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding 
houses, factory girls, millmen, and schoolboys, rushed 
into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity, 
as more than compensated for the silence of the cot- 
ton machines, which refrained from their usual din 
out of respect to the deceased. Had Mr. Higgin- 
botham cared about posthumous renown, his untimely 
ghost would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend 
Dominicus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended 
precautions, and mounting on the town pump, an- 
nounced himself as the bearer of the authentic intel- 
ligence which had caused so wonderful a sensation. 
He immediately became the great man of the mo- 
ment, and had just begun a new edition of the nar- 
rative, with a voice like a field preacher, when the 
VOL. 1. 10 


146 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


mail stage drove into the village street. It had 
travelled all night, and must have shifted horses at 
Kimballton, at three in the morning. 

‘Now we shall hear all the particulars,’ shouted 
the crowd. : 

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, 
followed by a thousand people; for if any man had 
been minding his own business till then, he now left 
it at sixes and sevens, to hear the news. The pedler, 
foremost in the race, discovered two passengers, both 
of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap ~ 
to find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every 
man assailing them with separate questions, all pro- 
pounded at once, the couple were struck speechless, 
though one was a lawyer and the other a young 
lady. 

‘Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us 
the particulars about old Mr. Higginbotham !’ bawled 
the mob. ‘ What is the coroner’s verdict? Are the 
murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham’s 
niece come out of her fainting fits? Mr. Higginbo- 
tham! Mr. Higginbotham ! !’ 

The coachman said not a word, except to swear 
awfully at the ostler for not bringing him a fresh team 
of horses. The lawyer inside had generally his wits 
about him even when asleep; the first thing he did, 
afier learning the cause of the excitement, was to pro- 
duce a large red pocket-book. Meantime, Domini- 
cus Pike, being an extremely polite young man, and 
also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the 
story as glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the lady out 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 147 


of the coach. She was a fine, smart girl, now wide 
awake and bright as a button, and had such a sweet 
pretty mouth, that Dominicus would almost as lief 
have heard a love tale from it as a tale of murder. 

‘Gentlemen and ladies; said the lawyer, to the 
shopkeepers, the millmen, and the factory girls, ‘1 
can assure you that some unaccountable mistake, or, 
more probably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously con- 
trived to injure Mr. Higginbotham’s credit, has excited 
. this singular uproar. We’passed through Kimballton 
at three o’clock this morning, and most certainly 
should have been informed of the murder, had any 
been perpetrated. But I have proof nearly as strong 
as Mr. Higginbotham’s own oral testimony, in the 
negative. Here is a note, relating to a suit of his in 
the Connecticut courts, which was delivered me from 
that gentleman himself. I find it dated at ten o’clock 
last evening.’ 

So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and sig- 
nature of the note, which irrefragably proved, either 
that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was alive when 
he wrote it, or,—as some deemed the more proba- 
ble case, of two doubtful ones, — that he was so ab- 
sorbed in worldly business as to continue to transact 
it, even after his death. But unexpected evidence was 
forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to the 
pedler’s explanation, merely seized a moment to 
smooth her gown and put her curls in order, and then 
appeared at the tavern door, making a modest signal 
to be heard. 

‘Good people,’ said she, ‘I am Mr. Higginbotham’s 
niece.’ 


148 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


A wondering murmur passed through the crowd, 
on beholding her so rosy and bright; that same un- 
happy niece, whom they had supposed, on the au- 
thority of the Parker’s Falls Gazette, to be lying at 
death’s door in a fainting fit. But some shrewd fel- 
lows had doubted, all along, whether a young lady 
would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich 
old uncle. ; 

‘You see,’ continued Miss Higginbotham, with a 
smile, ‘that this strange story is quite unfounded, as 
to myself; and I believe I may affirm it to be equally 
so, in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He 
has the kindness to give me a home in his house, 
though I contribute to my own support by teaching a 
school. I left Kimballton this morning to spend the 
vacation of commencement week with a friend, about 
five miles from Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle, 
when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his 
bed-side, and gave me two dollars and fifty cents, to 
pay my stage fare, and another dollar for my extra 
expenses. He then laid his pocket-book under his 
pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to take 
some biscuit in my bag, instead of breakfasting on 
the road. 1 feel confident, therefore, that I left my 
beloved relative alive, and trust that I shall find him 
so on my return.’ 

The young lady courtsied at the close of her 
speech, which was so sensible, and well-worded, and 
delivered with such grace and propriety, that every 
body thought her fit to be Preceptress of the best 
Academy in the State. Buta stranger would have 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 149 


supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was an object of 
abhorrence at Parker’s Falls, and that a thanksgiving 
had been proclaimed for his murder; so excessive 
was the wrath of the inhabitants, on learning their 
mistake, The millmenoresolved to bestow public 
honors on Dominicus Pike, only hesitating whether 
to tar and feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh 
him with an ablution at the town pump, on the top of 
which he had declared himself the bearer of the 
news. The selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, 
spoke of prosecuting him for a misdemeanor, in cir- 
culating unfounded reports, to the great disturbance 
of the peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved 
Dominicus, either from mob-law or a court of justice, 
but an eloquent appeal made by the young lady in 
his behalf. Addressing a few words of heartfelt 
gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green 
cart and rode out of town, under a discharge of ar- 
tillery from the schoolboys, who found plenty of am- 
munition in the neighboring clay-pits and mud-holes. 
As he turned his head, to exchange a farewell glance 
with Mr. Higginbotham’s niece, a ball, of the consist- 
ence of hasty-pudding, hit him slap in the mouth, 
giving him a most grim aspect. His whole person 
was so bespattered with the like filthy missiles, that 
he had almost a mind to ride back, and supplicate for 
the threatened ablution at the town pump ; for, though 
not meant in kindness, it would now have been a 
deed of charity. 

However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, 
and the mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved 


é 


150 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry. Be- 
ing a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor 
could he refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar 
which his story had excited. The handbills of the 
selectmen would cause the commitment of all the 
vagabonds in the State; the paragraph in the Park- 
er’s Falls Gazette would be reprinted from Maine to 
Florida, and perhaps form an item in the London 
newspapers; and many a miser would tremble for 
his money-bags and life, on learning the catastrophe 
of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler meditated with 
much fervor on the charms of the young schoolmis- 
tress, and swore that Daniel Webster never spoke 
nor looked so like an angel as Miss Higginbotham, 
while defending him from the wrathful populace at 
Parker’s Falls. | 

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, 
having all along determined to visit that place, though 
business had drawn him out of the most direct road 
from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the 
supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circum- 
stances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect 
which the whole case assumed. Had nothing oc- 
curred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, 
it might now have been considered as a hoax; but 
the yellow man was evidently acquainted either with 
the report or the fact; and there was a mystery in 
his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly ques- 
tioned. When, to this singular combination of inci- 
dents, it was added that the rumor tallied exactly with 
Mr. Higginbotham’s character and habits of life ; and 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 151 


that he had an orchard, and a St. Michel’s pear 
tree, near which he always passed at night-fall; the 
circumstantial evidence appeared so strong that Do- 
minicus doubted whether the autograph produced by 
the lawyer, or even the niece’s direct testimony, 
ought to be equivalent. Making cautious inquiries 
along the road, the pedler further learned that Mr. 
Higginbotham had in his service an Irishman of 
doubtful character, whom he had hired without a re- 
commendation, on the score of economy. 

‘May I be hanged myself, exclaimed Dominicus 
Pike aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, ‘if 
I'll believe old Higginbotham is unhanged, till I see 
him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own 
mouth! Andas he’s a real shaver, 1’ll have the 
minister or some other responsible man, for an en- 
dorser.’ 

It was growing dusk when he reached the toll- 
house on Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a 
mile from the village of this name. His little mare 
was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback, 
who trotted through the gate a few rods in advance 
of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer, and kept on 
towards the village. Dominicus was acquainted with 
the toll-man, and while making change, the usual 
remarks on the weather passed between them. 

‘I suppose, said the pedler, throwing back his 
whiplash, to bring it down like a feather on the 
mare’s flank, ‘you have not seen anything of old 
Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?’ 

‘Yes,’ answered the toll-gatherer. ‘He passed the 


152 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides 
now, if you can see him through the dusk. He’s 
been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s 
sale there. The old man generally shakes hands and 
has a little chat with me ; but to-night, he nodded, — 
as if to say, “charge my toll,” —and jogged on; 
for wherever he goes, he must always be at home 
by eight o’clock.’ 

‘So they tell me,’ said Dominicus. 

‘] never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the 
squire does,’ continued the toll-gatherer. ‘Says I to 
myself, to-night, he’s more like a ghost or an old 
mummy than good flesh and blood.’ 

The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, 
and could just discern the horseman now far ahead 
on the village road. He seemed to recognise the 
rear of Mr. Higginbotham ; but through the evening 
shadows, and amid the dust from the horse’s feet the 
figure appeared dim and unsubstantial; as if the 
shape of the mysterious old man were faintly moulded 
of darkness and gray light. Dominicus shivered. 

‘Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other 
world, by way of the Kimballton turnpike,’ thought 
he. ‘ 

He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about 
the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, 
till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. 
On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the 
man on horseback, but found himself at the head of 
the village street, not far from a number of stores and 
two taverns, clustered round the meeting-house stee- 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 153 


ple. On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the 
boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an or- 
chard, further still, a mowing-field, and last of all, a 
house. These were the premises of Mr. Higgin- 
botham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, 
but had been left in the back ground by the Kimball- 
ton turnpike. Dominicus knew the place; and the 
little mare stopped short by instinct ; for he was not 
conscious of tightening the reins. 

‘For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate !’ 
said he, trembling. ‘I never shall be my own man 
again, till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hang- 
ing on the St. Michzel’s pear tree !” 

He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn 
round the gate post, and ran along the green path of 
the wood-lot, as if Old Nick were chasing behind. 
Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each 
deep stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and 
flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre 
of the orchard, he saw the fated pear tree. One 
great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk 
across the path, and threw the darkest shadow on 
that one spot. But something seemed to struggle 
beneath the branch ! 

The pedler had never pretended to more courage 
than befits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could 
he account for his valor on this awful emergency. 
Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, pros- 
trated a sturdy Irishman with the but-end of his whip, 
and found not indeed hanging on the St. Mi- 
cheel’s pear tree, but. trembling beneath it, with a 





154 MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


_halter round his neck — the old, identical Mr. Hig- 
ginbotham ! 

‘Mr. Higginbotham,’ said Dominicus tremulously, 
‘you ’re an honest man, and [Il take your word for 
it. Have you been hanged, or not?’ 

If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words 
will explain the simple machinery, by which this 
‘ coming event’ was made to cast its shadow before.’ 
Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of 
Mr. Higginbotham ; two of them, successively, lost 
courage and fled, each delaying the crime one night, 
by their disappearance ; the third was in the act of 
perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the 
call of fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared 
in the person of Dominicus Pike. . 

It only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took 
the pedler into high favor, sanctioned his addresses 
to the pretty schoolmistress, and settled his whole 
property on their children, allowing themselves the 
interest. In due time, the old gentleman capped the 
climax of his favors, by dying a Christian death, in 
bed, since which melancholy event, Dominicus Pike | 
has removed from Kimballton, and established a 7 
tobacco manufactory in my native village. | 





LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 





LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


Dine-pone! Ding-dong! Ding-dong ! 

The town-crier has rung his bell, at a distant cor- 
ner, and little Annie stands on her father’s door-steps, 
trying to hear what the man with the loud voice is 
talking about. Let me listen too. Oh! he is telling 
the people that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal 
tiger, and a horse with horns, and other strange 
beasts from foreign countries, have come to town, 
and will receive all visiters who choose to wait upon 
them. Perhaps little Annie would like to go. Yes; 
and I can see that the pretty child is weary of this 
wide and pleasant street, with the green trees fling- 
ing their shade across the quiet sunshine, and the 
pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if the 
housemaid had just swept them with her broom. 
She feels that impulse to go strolling away —that 


158 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


longing after the mystery of the great world — which 
many children feel, and which I felt in my child- 
hood. Little Annie shall take a ramble with me. 
See! I do but hold out my hand, and, like some 
bright bird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock 
fluttering upwards from her white pantalets, she 
comes bounding on tiptoe across the street. 

Smooth back your brown curls, Annie; and let me 
tie on your bonnet, and we will set forth! What a 
strange couple to go on their rambles together! One 
walks in black attire, with a measured step, and a 
heavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while 
the gay little girl trips lightly along, as if she were 
forced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet should 
dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy 
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is be- 
cause I have a smile that children love; and, on the 
other hand, there are few grown ladies that could 
entice me from the side of little Annie ; for I delight 
to let my mind go hand in hand - with the mind of a 
sinless child. So, come, Annie; but if I moralize as 
we go, do not listen to me; only look about you, 
and be merry ! 

Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two 
horses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to 
meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a 
slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from 
the wharves, and here are rattling gigs, which per- 
haps will be smashed to pieces before our eyes. 
Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a wheelbar- 
row along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 159 


such a tumult? No; she does not even shrink closer 
to my side, but passes on with fearless confidence, a 
happy child amidst a great throng of grown people, 
who pay the same reverence to her infancy, that they 
would to extreme old age. Nobody jostles her ; all 
turn aside to make way for little Annie ; and what is 
most singular, she appears conscious of her claim to 
such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure ! 
A street musician has seated himself on the steps of 
yonder church, and pours forth his strains to the busy 
town, a melody that has gone astray among the tramp 
of footsteps, the buzz of voices, and the war of passing 
wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None 
but myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move 
in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loth that 
music should be wasted without a dance. But where 
would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in 
their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints; some are 
stiff with age; some feeble with disease ; some are so 
lean that their bones would rattle, and others of such 
ponderous size that their agility would crack the flag- 
stones ; but many, many have leaden feet, because 
their hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a sad 
thought that I have chanced upon. What a company 
of dancers should we be! For I, too, am a gentle- 
man of sober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let 
us walk sedately on. 

It is a question with me, whether this giddy child, 
or my sage self, have most pleasure in looking at the 
shop-windows. We love the silks of sunny hue, that 
glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry- 


160 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


goods men; we are pleasantly dazaled by the bur- 
nished silver, and the chased gold, the rings of wed- 
lock and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at the 
window of the jeweller; but Annie, more than I, seeks 
for a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty look- 
ing-glasses at the hardware stores. All that is bright 
and gay attracts us both. 

Here is a shop to which the recollections of my 
boyhood, as well as present partialities, give a pecu- 
liar magic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on 
the dainties of a confectioner; those pies, with such 
white and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, 
whether rich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or 
piquant apple, delicately rose-flavored ; those cakes, 
heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid ; those 
sweet little circlets, sweetly named kisses ; those dark 
majestic masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding 
of an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply 
snow-covered with sugar! Then the mighty treasures 
of sugarplums, white, and crimson, and yellow, in 
large glass vases; and candy of all varieties; and 
those little cockles, or whatever they are called, much 
prized by children for their sweetness, and more for 
the mottos which they enclose, by love-sick maids and 
bachelors! Oh! my mouth waters, little Annie, and 
so doth yours; but we will not be tempted, except to 
an imaginary feast; so let us hasten onward, devour- 
ing the vision of a plum cake. 

Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of 
a more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. 
Is Annie a literary lady ? Yes; she is deeply read in 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 161 


Peter Parley’s tomes, and has an increasing love for 
fairy tales, though seldom met with now-a-days, and 
she will subscribe, next year, to the Juvenile Miscel- 
lany. But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from 
the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pic- 
tures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this 
shop-window the continual loitering place of children. 
What would Annie think, if, in the book which I mean 
to send her, on New Year’s day, she should find her 
sweet little self, bound up in silk or morocco with gilt 
edges, there to remain till she become a woman 
grown, with children of her own. to read about their 
mother’s childhood! That would be very queer. 
Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me 
onward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the 
most wondrous shop in all the town. Oh, my stars! 
Is this a toyshop, or is it fairy land? For here are 
gilded chariots, in which the king and queen of the 
fairies might ride side by side, while their courtiers, 
on these small horses, should gallop in triumphal pro- 
cession before and behind the royal pair. Here, too, 
are dishes of china ware, fit to be the dining set of 
those same princely personages, when they make a 
regal banquet in the stateliest hall of their palace, full 
five feet high, and behold their nobles feasting adown 
the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the king 
and queen should sit my little Annie, the prettiest 
fairy of them all. Here stands a turbaned Turk, 
threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as 
he is. And next a Chinese mandarine, who nods his 
head at Annie and myself. Here we may review a 
VOL. I. 11 


162 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


whole army of horse and foot, in red and blue uni- 
forms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and all kinds of 
noiseless music ; they have halted on the shelf of this 
window, after their weary march from Lilliput. But 
what cares Annie for soldiers? No conquering queen 
is she, neither a Semiramis nor a Catharine; her 
whole heart is set upon that doll, who gazes at us with 
such a fashionable stare. This is the little girl’s true 
plaything. Though made of wood, a doll is a vision- 
ary and ethereal personage, endowed by childish 
fancy with a peculiar life ; the mimic lady is a hero- 
ine of romance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand 
shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild 
world with which children ape the real one. Little 
‘Annie does not understand what I am saying, but 
looks wishfully at the proud lady in the window. We 
will invite her home with us as we return. Mean- 
time, good-by, Dame Doll! A toy yourself, you look 
forth from your window upon many ladies that are 
also toys, though they walk and speak, and upona 
crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear grave 
visages. Oh, with your never-closing eyes, had you 
but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before 
them, what a wise doll would you be! Come, little . 
Annie, we shall find toys enough, go where we may. 

Now we elbow our way among the throng again. 
It is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to 
meet with living creatures that had their birthplace in 
some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature 
in the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that 
canary bird, hanging out of the window in his cage. 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 163 


Poor little fellow! His golden feathers are all tar- 
nished in this smoky sunshine ; he would have glistened 
twice as brightly among the summer islands ; but still 
he has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits, 
and would not sing half so well without the uproar 
that drowns his music. What a pity that he does not 
know how miserable he is! There is a parrot, too, 
calling out, ‘ Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll!’ as we pass 
by. Foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness 
to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty Poll, 
though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If she 
had said ‘ pretty Annie,’ there would have been some 
sense in it. See that gray squirrel, at the door of the 
fruit-shop, whirling round and round so merrily within 
his wire wheel! Being condemned to the treadmill, 
he makes it an amusement. Admirable philosophy ! 

Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman’s dog 
in search of his master ; smelling at every body’s heels, 
and touching little Annie’s hand with his cold nose, 
but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted 
him. Success to your search, Fidelity! And there 
sits a great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very cor- 
pulent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory 
world, with owl’s eyes, and making pithy comments, 
doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. Oh, 
sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will 
be a pair of philosophers ! 

Here we see something to remind us of the town- 
crier, and his ding-dong-bell ! Look ! look at that great 
cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over with wild 
beasts, as if they had met together to choose a king, 


164 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


according to their custom in the days of Msop. But 
they are choosing neither a king nora President ; else 
we should hear a most horrible snarling! ‘They have 
come from the deep woods, and the wild mountains, 
and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only to do 
homage to my little Annie. As we enteramong them, 
the great elephant makes us a bow, in the best style 
of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his 
mountain bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust out 
behind. Annie returns the salute, much to the grati- 
fication of the elephant, who is certainly the best bred 
monster in the caravan. The lion and the lioness 
are busy with two beef bones. The royal tiger, the 
beautiful, the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow 
cage with a haughty step, unmindful of the specta- 
tors, or recalling the fierce deeds of his former life, 
when he was wont to leap forth upon such inferior 
animals, from the jungles of Bengal. 

Here we see the very same wolf — do not go near 
him, Annie !— the self-same wolf that devoured little 
Red Riding Hood and her grandmother. In the next 
cage, a hyena from Egypt, who has doubtless howled 
around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own 
forests, are fellow prisoners, and most excellent 
friends. Are there any two living creatures, who 
have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly be 
friends? Here sits a great. white bear, whom com- 
mon. observers would call a very stupid beast, though 
I perceive him to be only absorbed in contemplation ; 
he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and ot 
his comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 165 


and of the little cubs whom he left rolling in the eter- 
nal snows. In fact, he is a bear of sentiment. But, 
oh, those unsentimental monkeys ! the ugly, grinning, 
aping, chattering, illnatured, mischievous and queer 
little brutes. Annie does not love the monkeys. 
Their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy 
of taste, and makes her mind unquiet, because it 
bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. But 
here is a little pony, just big enough for Annie to 
ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, 
keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of 
music. And here — with a laced coat and a cocked 
hat, and a riding whip in his hand, here comes a 
little gentleman, small enough to be king of the 
fairies, and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes, 
and takes a flying leap into the saddle. Merrily, 
merrily, plays the music, and merrily gallops the 
pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman. 
Come, Annie, into the street again; perchance we 
may see monkeys on horseback there ! 

Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people 
live in! Did Annie ever read the cries of London 
city? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man pro- 
claim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here 
comes another mounted ona cart, and blowing a 
hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as 
to say ‘ fresh fish!’ And hark! a voice on high, like 
that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, an- 
nouncing that some chimney sweeper has emerged 
from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the 
upper air. What cares the world for that? But, 


166 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the 
scream of a little child, rising louder with every repe- 
tition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced 
by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, 
though without experience of such direful woe. Lo! 
the town-crier again, with some new secret for the 
public ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost 
pocketbook, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of 
some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the 
caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the 
bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, 
then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to 
strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered 
forth in quick succession, far and near. 

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! 

Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the 
din of the town ; it drowns the buzzing talk of many 
tongues, and draws each man’s mind from his own 
business ; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and 
ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and pene- 
trates downward to the cellar kitchen, where the hot 
cook turns from the fire to listen. Who, of all that 
address the public ear, whether in church, or court- 
house, or hall of state, has such an attentive audience 
as the town-crier! What saith the people’s orator ? 

‘Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL, of five 
years old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets, 
with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever 
will bring her back to her afflicted mother —’ 

Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found. Oh, 
my pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 167 


ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town- 
crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting 
old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not 
once let go my hand? Well, let us hasten home- 
ward; and as we go, forget not to thank heaven, 
my Annie, that after wandering a little way into the 
world, you may return at the first summons, with an 
untainted and unwearied heart, and be a happy child 
again. But I have gone too far astray for the town- 
crier to call me back! 

Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my 
spirit, throughout my ramble with little Annie! Say 
not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an 
idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of 
childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a 
grown man’s notice. Has it been merely this? Not 
so; not so. They are not truly wise who would 
affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the 
life of aged men, so is our moral nature revived by 
their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, 
their airy mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, 
soon roused and soon allayed. ‘Their influence on 
us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When 
our infancy is almost forgotten,and our boyhood long 
departed, though it seems but as yesterday ; when 
life settles darkly down upon us, and we doubt 
whether to call ourselves young any more, then it is 
good to steal away from the society of bearded men, 
and even of gentler woman,.and spend an hour or 
two with children. After drinking from those foun- 
tains of still fresh existence, we shall return into the 


168 LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


crowd, as I do now, to struggle onward and do our 
part in life, perhaps as fervently as ever, but, for a 
time, with a kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more 
lightly wise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little 
Annie ! 


WAKEFIELD. 





WAKEFIELD. 


In some old magazine or newspaper, I recollect a 
story, told as truth, of a man —let us call him Wake- 
field — who absented himself for a long time from his 
wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very 
uncommon, nor — without a proper distinction of cir- 
cumstances — to be condemned either as naughty or 
nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most 
ageravated, is perhaps the strangest instance, on re- 
cord, of marital delinquency ; and, moreover, as re- 
markable a freak as may be found in the whole list of 
human oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. 
The man, under pretence of going a journey, took 
lodgings in the next street to his own house, and 
there, unheard of by his wife or friends, and without 
the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, 
dwelt upwards of twenty years. During that period, 


172 WAKEFIELD. 


he beheld his home every day, and frequently the 
forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in 
his matrimonial felicity — when his death was reck- 
oned certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed 
from memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned 
to her autumnal widowhood —he entered the door 
one evening, quietly, as from a day’s absence, and 
became a loving spouse till death. 7 

This outline is all that I remember. But the inci- 
dent, though of the purest originality, unexampled, 
and probably never to be repeated, is one, I think, 
which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind. 
We know, each for himself, that none of us would 
perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other 
might. To my own contemplations, at least, it has 
often recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a 
sense that the story must be true, and a conception of 
its hero’s character. Whenever any subject so forci- 
bly affects the mind, time is well spent in thinking of 
it. Ifthe reader choose, let him do his own medita- 
tion; or if he prefer to.ramble with me through the 
twenty years of Wakefield’s vagary, I bid him wel- 
come ; trusting that there will be a pervading spirit 
and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done 
up neatly, and condensed into the final sentence. 
Thought has always its efficacy, and every striking 
incident its moral. 

What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are fires 
to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name. 
He was now in the meridian of life ; his matrimonial 
affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, 


WAKEFIELD. 173 


habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to 
be the most constant, -because a certain sluggishness - 
would keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be 
placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so ; his 
mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings, that 
tended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it ; 
his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold 
of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the 
term, made no part of Wakefield’s gifts. With a 
cold, but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a 
mind never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor per- 
plexed with originality, who could have anticipated, 
that our friend would entitle himself to a foremost 
place among the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his 
acquaintances been asked, who was the man in Lon- 
don, the surest to perform nothing today which should 
be remembered on the morrow, they would have 
thought of Wakefield. Only the wife of his bosom 
might have hesitated. She, without having analyzed 
his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness, 
that had rusted into his inactive mind — of a peculiar 
sort of vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him — 
of a disposition to craft, which had seldom produced 
more positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets, 
hardly worth revealing —and, lastly, of what she 
called a little strangeness, sometimes, in the good 
man. This latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps 
non-existent. 

Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his 
wife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His 
equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an 


174 WAKEFIELD. 


oilcloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a 
small portmanteau in the other. He has informed 
Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night-coach into 
the country. She would fain inquire the length of his 
journey, its object, and the probable time of his re- 
turn; but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, 
interrogates him only by a look. - He tells her not to 
expect him positively by the return coach, nor to be 
alarmed .should he tarry three or four days; but, at 
all events, to look for him at supper on Friday even- 
ing. Wakefield himself, be it considered, has no 
suspicion of what is before him. He holds out his 
hand ; she gives her own, and meets his parting kiss, 
in the matter-of-course way of a ten years’ matri- 
‘mony ; and forth goes the middle-aged Mr. Wake- 
field, almost resolved to perplex his good lady by a 
whole week’s absence. . After the door has closed 
behind him, she perceives it thrust partly open, and a 
vision of her husband’s face, through the aperture, 
smiling on her, and gone in a moment. For the 
time, this little incident is dismissed without a thought. 
But, long afterwards, when she has been more years 
a widow than a wife, that smile recurs, and flickers 
across all her reminiscences of Wakefield’s visage. 
In her many musings, she surrounds the original 
smile with a multitude of fantasies, which make it 
strange and awful; as, for instance, if she imagines 
him in a coffin, that parting look is frozen on his pale 
features; or, if she dreams of him in Heaven, still 
his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty smile. Yet, 
for its sake, when all others have given him up 


WAKEFIELD. 175 


for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a 
widow. 

But, our business is with the husband. We must 
hurry after him, along the street, ere he lose’ his in-. 
dividuality, and melt into the great mass of London 
life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let 
us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after 
several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him 
comfortably established by the fireside of a small 
apartment, previously bespoken. He is in the next 
street to his own, and at his journey’s end. He can 
scarcely trust his good fortune, in having got thither 
unperceived — recollecting that, at one time, he was 
delayed by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted 
lantern ; and, again, there were footsteps, that seemed 
to tread behind his own, distinct from the multitudi- 
nous tramp around him; and, anon, he heard a voice 
shouting afar, and fancied that it called his name. 
- Doubtless, a dozen busybodies had been watching 
him; and told his wife the whole affair. Poor Wake- 
field! Little knowest thou thine own insignificance 
in this great world! No mortal eye but mine has 
traced thee. Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man; 
and, on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee 
home to good Mrs. Wakefield, and tell her the truth. 
Remove not thyself, even for a little week, from thy 
place in her chaste bosom. Were she, for a single 
moment, to deem thee dead, or lost, or lastingly di- 
vided from her, thou wouldst be wofully conscious of 
a change in thy true wife, for ever after. It is peril- 
ous to make a chasm in human affections; not that 


176 WAKEFIELD. 


they gape so long and wide —but so quickly close 
again ! 

Almost repenting of his felis or whatever it may 
be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting 
from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the 
wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. 
‘No’—thinks he, gathering the bed-clothes about 
him —‘I will not sleep alone another night.’ 

In the morning, he rises earlier than usual, and 
sets himself to phades what he really means to do. 
Such are his loose and rambling modes of thought, 
that he has taken this very singular step, with the 
consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but without being 
able to define it sufficiently for his own contempla- 
tion. The vagueness of the project, and the con- 
vulsive effort with which he plunges into the execu- 
tion of it, are equally characteristic of a feeble-minded 
man. Wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely 
as he may, and finds himself curious to know the pro- 
gress of matters at home —how his exemplary wife 
will endure her widowhood, of a week; and, briefly, 
how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances, 
in which he was a central object, will be affected by 
his removal. A morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest 
the bottom of the affair. But, how is he to attain his 
ends? Not, certainly, by keeping close in this com- 
fortable lodging, where, though he slept and awoke in 
the next street to his home, he is as effectually 
abroad, as if the stage-coach had been whirling him 
away all night. Yet, should he re-appear, the whole 
project is knocked in the head. His poor brains 


+e 


WAKEFIELD. 177 


being hopelessly puzzled with this dilemma, he at 
length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the 
head of the street, and send one hasty glance towards 
his forsaken domicile. Habit—‘for he is a man of 
habits — takes him by the hand, and guides him, 
wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just at the 
critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of his 
foot upon the step. Wakefield! whither are you 
going ? 

At that instant, his fate was turning on the pivot. 
Little dreaming of the doom to which his first back- 
ward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless 
with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn 
his head, at the distant corner. Can it be, that no- 
body caught sight of him? Will not the whole house- 
hold —the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid- 
servant, and the dirty little footboy — raise a hue- 
and-cry, through London streets, in pursuit of their 
fugitive lord and master? Wonderful escape! He 
gathers courage to pause and look homeward, but is 
perplexed with a sense of change about the familiar 
edifice, such as affects us all, when, after a separa- 
tion of months or years, we again see some hill or 
lake, or work of art, with which we were friends, of 
old. In ordinary cases, this indescribable impression 
is caused by the comparison and contrast between 
our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. In 
Wakefield, the magic of a single night has wrought 
a similar transformation, because, in that brief period, 
a great moral change has been effected. But this is 
a secret from himself. Before leaving the spot, he 

VOL. I. 12 


178 WAKEFIELD. 


catches a far and momentary glimpse of his wife, 
passing athwart the front window, with her face turn- 
ed towards the head of the street. The crafty nin- 
compoop takes to his heels, scared with the idea, 
that, among a thousand such atoms of mortality, her 
eye must have detected him. Right glad is his heart, 
though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when he finds 
himself by the coal-fire of his lodgings. 

So much for the commencement of this long whim- 
wham. After the initial conception, and the stirring 
up of the man’s sluggish temperament to put it in 
practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural 
train. We may suppose him, as the result of deep 
deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and 
selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his 
customary suit of brown, from a Jew’s old-clothes 
bag. It is accomplished. Wakefield is another man. 
The new system being now established, a retrograde 
movement to the old would be almost as difficult as 
the step that placed him in his unparalleled position. 
Furthermore, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness, 
occasionally incident to his temper, and brought on, 
at present, by the inadequate sensation which he con- 
ceives to have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. 
Wakefield. He will not go back until she be fright- 
ened half to death. Well; twice or thrice has she 
passed before his sight, each time with a heavier 
step, a paler cheek, and more anxious brow ; and in 
the third week of his non-appearance, he detects a 
portent of evil entering the house, in the guise of an 
apothecary. Next day, the knocker is muffled. 'To- 


WAKEFIELD. 179 


wards night-fall, comes the chariot of a physician, 
and deposits its big-wigged and solemn burthen at 
Wakefield’s door, whence, after a quarter of an 
hour’s visit, he emerges, perchance the herald of a 
funeral. Dear woman! Will she die? By this time, 
Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feel- 
ing, but still lingers away from his wife’s bed-side, 
pleading with his conscience, that she must not be 
disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else restrains 
him, he does not know it. In the course of a few 
weeks, she gradually recovers; the crisis is over; 
her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, let him re- 
turn soon or late, it will never be feverish for him 
again. Such ideas glimmer through the mist of 
Wakefield’s mind, and render him indistinctly con- 
scious, that an almost impassable gulf divides his 
hired apartment from his former home. ‘ It is but in 
the next street!’ he sometimes says. Fool! it is in 
another world. Hitherto, he has put off his return 
from one particular day to another; henceforward, 
he leaves the precise time undetermined. Not to- 
morrow — probably next week — pretty soon. Poor 
man! ‘The dead have nearly as much chance of re- 
visiting their earthly homes, as the self-banished 
Wakefield. 

Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an 
article of a dozen pages! Then might 1 exemplify 
how an influence, beyond our control, lays its strong 
hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its 
consequences into an iron tissue of necessity. Wake 
field is spell-bound. We must leave him, for ten 


180 WAKEFIELD. 


years or so, to haunt around his house, without once 
crossing the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, 
with all the affection of which his heart is capable, 
while he is slowly fading out of hers. Long since, 
it must be remarked, he has lost the perception of 
singularity in his conduct. 

Now for a scene! Amid the throng of a London 
street, we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, 
with few characteristics to attract careless observers, 
yet bearing, in his whole aspect, the hand-writing of 
no common fate, for such as have the skill to read it. 
He is meagre ; his low and narrow forehead is deeply 
wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes 
wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem 
to look inward. He bends his head, and moves with 
an indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to 
display his full front to the world. Watch him, long 
enough to see what we have described, and you will 
allow, that circumstances— which often produce re- 
markable men from nature’s ordinary handiwork — 
have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to 
sidle along the foot-walk, cast your eyes in the oppo- 
site direction, where a portly female, considerably in 
the wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is 
proceeding to yonder church. She has the placid 
mien of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either 
died away, or have become so essential to her heart, 
that they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just 
as the lean man and. well-conditioned woman are 
passing, a slight obstruction occurs, and brings these 
two figures directly in contact. Their hands touch ; 


WAKEFIELD. 181 


the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom against 
his shoulder; they stand, face to face, staring into 
each other’s eyes. After a ten years’ separation, 
thus Wakefield meets his wife ! 

The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder. 
The sober widow, resuming her former pace, pro- 
ceeds to church, but pauses in the portal, and throws 
a perplexed glance along the street. She passes in, 
however, opening her prayer-book as she goes. And 
the man? With so wild a face, that busy and 
selfish London stands to gaze after him, he hurries 
to his lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself 
upon the bed. The latent feelings of years break 
out; his feeble mind acquires a brief energy from 
their strength; all the miserable strangeness of his 
life is revealed to him at a glance: and he cries out, 
passionately —‘ Wakefield ! Wakefield! You are 
mad ! ° 

Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situa- 
tion must have so moulded him to itself, that, con- 
sidered in regard to his fellow-creatures and the 
business of life, he could not be said to possess his 
right mind. He had contrived, or rather he had hap- 
pened, to dissever himself from the world — to vanish 
—to give up his place and privileges with living 
men, without being admitted among the dead. The 
life of a hermit is nowise parallel to his. He was in 
the bustle of the city, as of old; but the crowd swept 
by, and saw him not; he was, we may figuratively 
say, always beside his wife, and at his hearth, yet 
must never feel the warmth of the one, nor the affec- 


182 WAKEFIELD. 


tion of the other. It was Wakefield’s unprecedented 
fate, to retain his original share of human sympathies, 
and to be still involved in human interests, while he 
had lost his reciprocal influence on them. It would 
be a most curious speculation, to trace out the effect 
of such circumstances on his heart and intellect, sep- 
arately, and in unison. Yet, changed as he was, he 
would seldom be conscious of it, but deem himself 
the same man as ever; glimpses of the truth, indeed, 
would come, but only for the moment; and still he 
would keep saying —‘I shall soon go back!’ — nor 
reflect, that he had been saying so for twenty years. 

I conceive, also, that these twenty years would ap- 
pear, in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week 
to which Wakefield had at first limited his absence. 
He would look on the affair as no more than an inter- 
lude in the main business of his life. When, after a 
little while more, he should deem it time to reénter 
his parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on 
beholding the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what 
a mistake! Would Time but await the close of our 
favorite follies, we should be young men, all of us, 
and till Doomsday. 

One evening, in the twentieth year since he van- 
ished, Wakefield is taking his customary walk towards 
the dwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty 
night of autumn, with frequent showers, that patter 
down upon the pavement, and are gone, before a man 
can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house, 
Wakefield discerns, through the parlor-windows of the 
second floor, the red glow, and the glimmer and fitful 


WAKEFIELD. 183 


flash, of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a 
grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, 
the nose and chin, and the broad waist, form an ad- 
mirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the 
up-flickering and down-sinking blaze, almost too mer- 
rily for the shade of an elderly widow. At this 
instant, a shower chances to fall, and is driven, by 
the unmannerly gust, full into Wakefield’s face and 
bosom. He is quite penetrated with its autumnal 
chill. Shall he stand, wet and shivering here, when 
his own hearth has a good fire to warm him, and his 
own wife will run to fetch the gray coat and small- 
clothes, which, doubtless, she has kept carefully in 
the closet of their bedchamber? No! Wakefield is 
no such fool. He ascends the steps— heavily ! — 
for twenty years have stiffened his legs, since he 
came down —but he knows it not. Stay, Wake- 
field! Would you go to the sole home that is left 
you? Then step into your grave! The door opens. 
As he passes in, we have a parting glimpse of his 
visage, and recognise the crafty smile, which was the 
precursor of the little joke, that he has ever since 
been playing off at his wife’s expense. How unmer- 
cifully has he quizzed the poor woman ! Well, a good 
night’s rest to Wakefield ! 

This happy event— supposing it to be such— 
could only have occurred at an unpremeditated mo- 
ment. We will not follow our friend across the 
threshold. He has left us much food for thought, a 
portion of which shall lend its wisdom toa moral, 
and be shaped into a figure. Amid the seeming con- 


184 WAKEFIELD. 


fusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so 
nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one 
another, and to a whole, that, by stepping aside fora 
moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of . 
losing his place for ever. Like Wakefield, he may 
become, as it were, the Outcast of the Universe. 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP. 





A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 


(Scene — the corner of two principal streets The 
Town Pump talking through its nose.) 


Noon, by the north clock! Noon, by the east! 
High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall, 
_ scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the 
water bubble and smoke, in the trough under my 
nose. Truly, we public characters have a tough 
time of it! And, among all the town officers, chosen 
at March meeting, where is he that sustains, for a 
single year, the burthen of such manifold duties as 
are imposed, in perpetuity, upon the Town Pump? 
The title of ‘town treasurer’ is rightfully mine, as 
guardian of the best treasure that the town has. The 
overseers of the poor ought to make ime their chatr- 
man, since | provide bountifully for the pauper, with- 


} Essex and Washington streets, Salem. 


188 A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 


out expense to him that pays taxes. Jam at the 
head of the fire department, and one of the physi- 
cians to the board of health. Asa keeper of the 
peace, all water-drinkers will confess me equal to 
the constable. I perform some of the duties of the . 
town clerk, by promulgating public notices, when 
they are posted on my front. To speak within 
bounds, I am the chief person of the municipality, 
and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my 
brother officers, by the cool, steady, upright, down- 
right, and impartial discharge of my business, and 
the constancy with which I stand to my post. Sum- 
mer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain; for, all 
day long, I am seen at the busiest corner, just above 
the market, stretching out my arms, to rich and poor 
alike ; and at night, I hold a lantern over my head, 
both to show where I am, and keep people out of the 
gutters. . . ; 

At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the 
parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is 
chained to my waist. Like a dramseller on the mall, 
at muster day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my 
plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice. 
Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! 
Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! 
Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadultera- 
ted ale of father Adam — better than Cognac, Hol- 
lands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price ; 
here it is, by the hogshead or the single glass, and 
not a cent to pay! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, 
and help yourselves ! 3 


. 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 189 


It were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no 
customers. Here they come. A hot day, gentle- 
men! Quaff, and away again, so as to keep your- 
selves in a nice cool sweat. You, my friend, 
will need another cup-full, to wash the dust out 
of your throat, if it be as thick there as it is on 
your cowhide shoes. I see that you have trudged 
half a score of -miles today; and, like a wise man, 
have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the run- 
ning brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt 
heat without and fire within, you would have been 
burnt to a cinder, or melted down to nothing at all, 
in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and make room 
for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench 
the fiery fever of last night’s potations, which he 
drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most rubi- 
cund sir! You and I have been great strangers, 
hitherto ; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be 

anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your 
breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man! 
the water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, 
and is converted quite to steam, in the miniature 
tophet, which you mistake for a stomach. Fill 
again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, 
did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram- 
shop, spend the price of your children’s food, for a 
swig half so delicious ? Now, for the first time these 
ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. Good- 
by ; and, whenever you are thirsty, remember that I 
keep aconstant supply, at the old stand. Who next? 
Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school, 


190 A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 


and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and 
drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and 
other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town 
Pump. ‘Take it, pure as the current of your young 
life. ‘Take it, and may your heart and tongue never 
be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! There, 
my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your 
place to this ‘elderly gentleman, who treads so ten- 
derly over the paving-stones, that I suspect he is 
afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by, with- 
out so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable 
offers were meant only for people who have no wine 
cellars. Well, well, sir—no harm done, I hope! 
Go draw the cork, tip the decanter; but, when your 
great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair 
of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of 
the gout, it is all one to the Town Pump. This 
thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not 
scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs, and 
laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he 
capers away again! Jowler, did your worship ever 
have the gout? 

Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, 
my good friends ; and, while my spout has a mo- 
ment’s leisure, 1 will delight the town with a few 
historical reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath 
a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring 
bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth, in the very spot 
where you now behold me, on the sunny pavement. 
The water was as bright and clear, and deemed as 
precious, as liquid diamonds. The Indian sagamores 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 19] 


drank of it, from time immemorial, till the fatal del- 
uge of the fire-water burst upon the red men, and 
swept their whole race away from the cold fountains. 
Endicott, and his followers, came next, and often 
knelt down to drink, dipping their long beards in the 
spring. The richest goblet, then, was of birch bark. 
Governor Winthrop, after a journey afoot from Bos- 
ton, drank here, out of the hollow of his hand. The 
elder Higginson here wet his palm, and laid it on the 
brow of the first town-born child. For many years 
it was the watering-place, and, as it were, the wash- 
bowl of the vicinity — whither all decent folks re- 
sorted, to purify their visages, and gaze at them 
afterwards — at least, the pretty maidens did — in 
the mirror which it made. On Sabbath days, when- 
ever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled his 
basin here, and placed it on the communion-table of 
the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the 
site of yonder stately brick one. Thus, one genera- 
tion after another was consecrated to Heaven by its 
waters, and cast their waxing and waning shadows 
into its glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, 
as if mortal life were but a flitting image in a foun- 
tain. Finally, the fountain vanished also. Cellars 
were dug on all sides, and cart-loads of gravel flung 
upon its source, whence oozed a turbid stream, form- 
ing a mudpuddle, at the corner of two streets. In 
the hot months, when its refreshment was most 
needed, the dust flew in clouds over the forgotten 
birthplace of the waters, now their grave. But, in 
the course of time, a Town Pump was sunk into the 


192 A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 


source of the ancient spring ; and when the first de- 
cayed, another took its place—and then another, 
and still another — till here stand I, gentlemen and 
ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink, 
and be refreshed! The water is as pure and cold 
as that which slaked the thirst of the red sagamore, 
beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the 
wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where 
no shadow falls, but from the brick buildings. And 
be it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted and 
long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so 
shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since 
your fathers’ days, be recognised by all. 

Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my 
stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of 
water, to replenish the trough for this teamster and 
his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, 
or somewhere along that way. No part of my busi- 
ness is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! 
how rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides 
of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are mois- 
tened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can 
afford time to breathe it in, with sighs of calm enjoy- 
ment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the 
brim of their monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is 
your true toper. 

But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are im- 
patient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute 
it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a 
little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifa- 
rious merits. It is altogether for your good. The 


” 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 193 


better you think of me, the better men and women 
will you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my 
all-important aid on washing-days ; though, on that 
account alone, I might call myself the household god 
of a hundred families. Far be it from me also, to 
hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty 
faces, which you would present, without my pains to 
keep you clean. Nor will | remind you how often, 
when the midnight bells make you tremble for your 
combustible town, you have fled to the Town Pump, 
and found me always at my post, firm, amid the con- 
fusion, and ready to drain my vital current in your 
behalf. Neither is it worth while to lay much stress 
on my claims to a medical diploma, as the physician, 
whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the 
nauseous lore, which has found men sick or left them 
so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a 
broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. 

No; these are trifles, compared with the merits 
which wise men concede to me — if not in my single 
self, yet as the representative of a class— of being 
the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and 
such spouts as mine, must flow the stream, that shall 
cleanse our earth of the vast portion,of its crime and 
anguish, which has gushed from the fiery fountains 
of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall 
be my great confederate. Milk and water! The 
Town Pump and the Cow! Such is the glorious co- 
partnership, that shall tear down the distilleries and 
brewhouses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider- 
presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and, finally 

VOL. I. 13 


194. A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 


monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. 
Blessed consummation! Then, Poverty shall pass 
away from the land, finding no hovel so wretched, 
where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then 
Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own 
heart, and die. Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose 
half her strength. Until now, the phrensy of he- 
reditary fever has raged in the human blood, trans- 
mitted from sire to son, and rekindled, in every 
generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When 
that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of pas- 
sion cannot but grow cool, and war —the drunken- 
ness of nations — perhaps will cease. At least, there 
will be no war of households. 'The husband and wife, 
drinking deep of peaceful joy — a calm bliss of tem- 
perate affections — shall pass hand in hand through 
life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted 
close. To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad 
dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments 
as follow the delirium of the drunkard. ‘Their dead 
faces shall express what their spirits were, and are to 
be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope. 
Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying ; especially 
to an unpractised orator. I never conceived, till now, 
what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my 
sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to 
themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke 
or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir! My 
dear hearers, when the world shall have been regen- 
erated, by my instrumentality, you will collect your 
useless vats and liquor casks into one great pile, and 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN FUMP. -° 195 


make a bonfire, in honor of the Town Pump. And, 
when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, 
then, if you revere my memory, let a marble foun- 
tain, richly sculptured, take my place upon this spot. 
Such monuments should be erected everywhere, and 
inscribed with the names of the distinguished cham- 
pions of my cause. Now listen ; for something very 
important is to come next. 

There are two or three honest friends of mine — 
and true friends, I know, they are — who, neverthe- 
less, by their fiery pugnacity in my behalf, do put me 
in fearful hazard of a broken nose, or even a total 
overthrow upon the pavement; and the loss of the 
treasure which I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let 
this fault be amended. Is it decent, thiak you, to get 
tipsy with zeal for temperance, and take up the hon- 
orable cause of the Town Pump, in the style of a 
toper, fighting for his brandy bottle? Or, can the 
excellent qualities of cold water be no otherwise ex- 
emplified, than by plunging, slapdash, into hot water, 
and wofully scalding yourselves and other people? 
Trust me, they may. In the moral warfare, which 
; you are to wage — and, indeed, in the whole conduct 
of your lives — you cannot choose a better example 
than myself, who have never permitted the dust and 
sultry atmosphere, the turbulence and manifold dis- 
quietudes of the world around me, to reach that deep, 
calm well of purity, which may be called my soul. 
And whenever I pour out that soul, it is to cool earth’s 
fever, or cleanse its stains. 

One o’clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins 


196 A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 


to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes 
a pretty young girl of my acquaintance, with a large 
stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a hus- 
band, while drawing her water, as Rachel did of old. 
Hold out your vessel, my dear! ‘There it is, full to 
the brim ; so now run home, peeping at your sweet 
image in the pitcher, as you go; and forget not, in a 
glass of my own liquor, to drink — ‘Success To THE 
Town Pump!’ 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE, 





THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 


Ar night-fall, once, in the olden time, on the rug- 
ged side of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of ad- 
venturers were refreshing themselves, after a toilsome 
and fruitless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They 
had come thither, not as friends, nor partners in the 
enterprise, but each, save one youthful pair, impelled 
by his own selfish and solitary longing for this won- 
drous gem. Their feeling of brotherhood, however, 
was strong enough to induce them to contribute a 
mutual aid in building a rude hut of branches, and 
kindling a great fire of shattered pines, that had drift- 


? The Indian tradition, on which this somewhat extravagant 
tale is founded, is both too wild and too beautiful, to be ad- 
equately wrought up, in prose. Sullivan, in his history of 
Maine, written since the Revolution, remarks, that even then, 
the existence of the Great Carbuncle was not entirely dis- 
credited. 


* 
200 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


ed down the headlong current of the Amonoosuck, on 
the lower bank of which they were to pass the night. 
There was but one of their number, perhaps, who 
had become so estranged from natural sympathies, by 
the absorbing spell of the pursuit, as to acknowledge 
no satisfaction at the sight of human faces, in the re- 
mote and solitary region whither they had ascended. 
A vast extent of wilderness lay between them and 
the nearest settlement, while scant a mile above their 
heads, was that bleak verge, where the hills throw off 
their shaggy mantle of forest trees, and either robe 
themselves in clouds, or tower naked into the sky. 
The roar of the Amonoosuck would have been too 
awful for endurance, if only a solitary man had listen- 
ed, while the mountain stream talked with the wind. 
The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable 
greetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, 
where each man was the host, and all were the guests 
of the whole company. ‘They spread their individual 
supplies of food on the flat surface of a rock, and par- 
took of a general repast; at the close of which, a 
sentiment of good fellowship was perceptible among 
the party, though repressed by the idea, that the re- 
newed search for the Great Carbuncle must make 
them strangers again, in the morning. Seven men 
and one young woman, they warmed themselves to- 
gether at the fire, which extended its bright wall 
along the whole front of their wigwam. As they ob- 
served the various and contrasted figures that made 
up the assemblage, each man looking like a caricature 
of himself, in the unsteady light that flickered over 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 201 


him, they came mutually to the conclusion, that an 
odder society had never met, in city or wilderness — 
on mountain or plain. 

The eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weather-beaten 
man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins 
of wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to 
imitate, since the deer,’ the wolf, and the bear, had 
long been his most intimate companions. He was 
one of those ill-fated mortals, such as the Indians told 
of, whom, in their early youth, the Great Carbuncle 
smote with a peculiar madness, and became the pas- 
sionate dream of their existence. All, who visited 
that region, knew him as the Seeker, and by no other 
name. As none could remember when he first took 
up the search, there went a fable in the valley of the 
Saco, that for his inordinate lust after the Great Car- 
buncle, he had been condemned to wander among the 
mountains till the end of time, still with the same 
_ feverish hopes at sunrise — the same despair at eve. 
Near this miserable Seeker sat a little elderly person- 
age, wearing a high crowned hat, shaped somewhat 
like a crucible. He was from beyond the sea, a 
Doctor Cacaphodel, who had wilted and dried himself 
into a mummy, by continually stooping over charcoal’ 
furnaces, and inhaling unwholesome fumes, during 
his researches in chemistry andalchymy. It was told 
of him, whether truly or not, that, at the commence- 
ment of his studies, he had drained his body of all its 
richest blood, and wasted it, with other inestimable 
ingredients, in an unsuccessful experiment — and had 
never been a well man since. Another of the adven- 


202 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


turers was Master Ichabod Pigsnort, a weighty mer- 
chant and selectman of Boston, and an elder of the 
famous Mr. Norton’s church. His enemies had a 
ridiculous story, that Master Pigsnort was accustomed 
to spend a whole hour, after prayer-time, every morn- 
ing and evening, in wallowing naked among an im- 
mense quantity of pine tree shillings, which were the 
earliest silver coinage of Massachusetts. The fourth, 
whom we shall notice, had no name, that his com- 
panions knew of, and was chiefly distinguished by a 
sneer that always contorted his thin visage, and by a 
prodigious pair of spectacles, which were supposed to 
deform and discolor the whole face of nature, to this 
gentleman’s perception. The fifth adventurer like- 
wise lacked a name, which was the greater pity, as 
he appeared to be a poet. He was a bright-eyed 
man, but wofully pined away, which was no more 
than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his ordinary 
diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the densest 
cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine, when- 
ever he could get it. Certain it is, that the poetry, 
which flowed from him, had a smack of all these 
dainties. The sixth of the party was a young man of 
haughty mien, and sat somewhat apart from the rest, 
wearing his plumed hat loftily among his. elders, 
while the fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his 
_ dress, and gleamed intensely on the jeweled pommel 
of his sword. This was the Lord de Vere, who, 
when at home, was said to spend much of his time in 
the burial-vault of his dead progenitors, rummaging 
their mouldy coffins in search of all the earthly pride 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 203 


and vainglory, that was hidden among bones and 
dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the col- 
lected haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry. 

Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, 
and by his side, a blooming little person, in whom a 
delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into 
the rich glow of a young wife’s affection. Her name 
was Hannah, and her husband’s Matthew ; two homely 
names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair, 
who seemed strangely out of place among the whim- 
sical fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the 
Great Carbuncle. 

Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze 
of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, 
all so intent upon a single object, that, of whatever 
else they began to speak, their closing words were 
sure to be illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. 
Several related the circumstances that brought them 
thither. One had listened to a traveller’s tale of this 
marvelous stone, in his own distant country, and had 
immediately been seized with such a thirst for be- 
holding it, as could only be quenched in its intensest 
lustre. Another, so long ago as when the famous 
Captain Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing 
far at sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening 
years; till now that he took up the search. A third, 
being encamped on a hunting expedition, full forty 
miles south of the White Mountains, awoke at mid- 
night, and beheld the Great Carbuncle gleaming like 
a meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell back- 
ward from it. ‘They spoke of the innumerable at: 


204 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


tempts, which had been made to reach the spot, and 
of the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld 
success from all adventurers, though it might seem so 
easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered 
the moon, and almost matched the sun. It was ob- 
servable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of 
every other, in anticipating better fortune than the 
past, yet nourished a scarcely hidden conviction, that 
he would himself be the favored one. As if to allay 
their too sanguine‘hopes, they recurred to the Indian 
traditions, that a spirit kept watch about the gem, and 
bewildered those who sought it, either by removing it 
from peak to peak of the higher hills, or by calling up - 
a mist from the enchanted lake over which it hung. 
But these tales were deemed unworthy of credit ;- all 
professing to believe, that the search had been baffled 
by want of sagacity or perseverance in the adventur- 
ers, ot such other causes as might naturally obstruct 
the passage to any given point, among the intrica- 
cies of forest, valley, and mountain. 

In a pause of the conversation, the wearer of the 
prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party, 
making each individual, in turn, the object of the 
sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. 

‘So, fellow-pilgrims,’ said he, ‘ here we are, seven 
wise men and one fair damsel — who, doubtless, is as 
wise as any gray-beard of the company: here we 
are, I say, all hound on the same goodly enterprise. 
Methinks now, it were not amiss, that each of us de- 
clare what he proposes to do with the Great Car- 
buncle, provided he have the good hap to clutch it. 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 205 


What says our friend in the bear-skin ? How mean 
you, good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have 
been seeking, the Lord knows how long, among the 
Crystal Hills ? ’ 

‘ How enjoy it!’ exclaimed the aged Seeker, bit- 
terly. ‘I hope for no enjoyment from it — that folly 
has past long ago! I keep up the search for this ac- 
cursed stone, because the vain ambition of my youth 
has become a fate upon me, in old age. The pur- 
suit alone is my strength — the energy of my soul— 
' the warmth of my blood, and the pith and marrow of 
my bones! Were I to turn my back upon it, I should 
fall down dead, on the hither side of the Notch, which 
is the gateway of this mountain region. Yet, not to 
have my wasted life-time back again, would I give 
up my hopes of the Great Carbuncle! Having found 
it, I shall bear it to a certain’ cavern that I wot of, 
and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and die, 
and keep it buried with me for ever.’ 

‘Oh, wretch, regardless of the ‘interests of sci- 
ence !* cried. Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic 
indignation. ‘Thou art not worthy to behold, even 
from afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem 
that ever was concocted in the laboratory of Nature. 
Mine is the sole purpose for which a wise man may 
desire the possession of the Great Carbuncle. Im- 
mediately on obtaining it—for I have a presenti- 
ment, good people, that the prize is reserved to crown 
my scientific reputation —I shall return to Europe, 
and employ my remaining years in reducing it to its 
first elements. A portion of the stone will I grind 


206 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


to impalpable powder ; other parts shall be dissolved 
in acids, or whatever solvents will act upon so admi- 
rable a composition ; and the remainder I design to 
melt in the crucible, or set on fire with the blowpipe. 
By these various methods, I shall gain an accurate 
analysis, and finally bestow the result of my labors 
upon the world, in a folio volume.’ / 

‘ Excellent!’ quoth the man with the spectacles. 
‘ Nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the 
necessary destruction of the gem ; since the perusal 
of your folio may teach every mother’s son of us to 
concoct a Great Carbuncle of his own.’ 

‘But, verily,’ said. Master Ichabod Pigsnort, ‘ for 
mine own part, I object to the making of these coun- 
terfeits, as being calculated to reduce the marketable 
value of the true gem. [I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have 
an interest in keeping up the price. Here have I 
quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in 
the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great 
hazard, and furthermore, have put myself in peril of 
death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages 
—and all this without daring to ask the prayers of 
the congregation, because the quest for the Great 
Carbuncle is deemed little better than a traffic with 
the evil one. Now think, ye that I would have done 
this grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, 
and estate, without a reasonable chance of profit ?” 

‘Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,’ said the man with 
the spectacles. ‘I never laid sucha great folly to 
thy charge.’ -- 

‘Truly, I hope not,’ said the merchant. ‘ Now, 


* 
THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 207 


as touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own 
that | have never had a glimpse of it; but be it only 
the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will 
surely outvalue the Great Mogul’s best diamond, 
which he holds at an incalculable sum. Wherefore, 
lam minded to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard, 
and voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, 
or into Heathendom, if Providence should send me 
thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the 
best. bidder among the potentates of the earth, that 
he may place it among his crown jewels. If any of 
ye have a wiser plan, let him expound it.” 

‘That have I, thou sordid man!’ exclaimed the 
poet, ‘Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold, 
that thou wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre 
into such dross, as thou wallowest in already? For 
myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie 
me back to my attick chamber, in one of the dark- 
some alleys of London. There, night and day, will 
] gaze upon it — my soul shall drink its radiance — 
it shall’ be diffused throughout my intellectual pow- 
ers, and gleam brightly in every line of poesy that I 
indite. ‘Thus, long ages after [am gone, the splen- 
dor of the Great Carbuncle will blaze around my 
name !’ 

‘ Well said, Master Poet!’ cried he of the specta- 
cles. ‘Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou? Why, 
it will gleam through the holes, and make thee look 
like a jack-o’lantern ! ’ 

‘To think!” ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather 
to himself than his companions, the best of whom he 


208 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


held utterly unworthy of his intercourse — ‘ to think 
that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of con- 
veying the Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grubb 
street! Have not I resolved within myself, that the 
whole earth contains no fitter ornament for the great 
hall of my ancestral castle ? There shall it flame for 
ages, making a noonday of midnight, glittering on | 
the suits of armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that 
hang around the wall, and keeping bright the memo- 
ry of heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers 
sought the prize in vain, but that I might win it, and 
make it a symbol of the glories of our lofty line? 
And never, on the diadem of the White Mountains, 
did the Great Carbuncle hold a place half so hon- 
ored, as is reserved for it in the hall of the de Veres!’ 

‘It isa noble thought,’ said the Cynic, with an 
obsequious sneer. ‘ Yet, might I presume to say so, 
the gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and 
would display the glories of your lordship’s progeni- 
tors more truly in the ancestral vault, than in the 
castle hall.’ ne 

‘Nay forsooth,’ observed Matthew, the young 
rustic, who sat hand in hand with his bride, ‘ the 
gentleman has bethought himself of a profitable use 
for this bright stone. Hannah here and I are seek- 
ing it for a like purpose” 

‘How, fellow!’ exclaimed his lordship, in sur- 
prise. ‘What castle hall hast thou to hang it in? 

‘No castle,’ replied Matthew, ‘ but as neat a cot- 
tage as any within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye 
must know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wed- 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 209 


ded the last week, have taken up the search of the 
Great Carbuncle, because we shall need its light in 
the long winter evenings; and it will be such a 
pretty thing. to show the neighbors when they visit 
us. It will shine through the house, so that we may 
pick upa pin in any corner, and will set all the 
windows a-glowing, as if there were a great fire of 
pine knots in the chimney. And then how pleasant, 
when we awake in the night, to be able to see one 
another’s faces !’ 

There was a general smile among the adventurers, 
at the simplicity of the young couple’s project, in 
regard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with 
which the greatest monarch on earth might have 
been proud to adorn his palace. Especially the man 
with spectacles, who had sneered at all the company 
in turn, now twisted his visage into such an ex- 
pression of ill-natured mirth, that Matthew asked 
him, rather peevishly, what he himself meant to do 
with the Great Carbuncle. 

‘The Great Carbuncle!’ answered the Cynic, 
with ineffable scorn. ‘ Why, you blockhead, there 
is no such thing, in rerum natura. I have come 
three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot 
on every peak of these mountains, and poke my 
head into every chasm, for the sole purpose of de- 
monstrating to the satisfaction of any man, one whit 
less an ass than thyself, that the Great Carbuncle is 
all a humbug!’ 

Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought 
most of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills, but none 

VOL. 1. 14 


210 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the 
scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was one 
of those wretched and evil men, whose yearnings 
are downward to the darkness, instead of Heaven- 
ward, and who, could they but extinguish the lights 
which God hath kindled for us, would count the 
midnight gloom their chiefest glory. As the Cynic 
spoke, several of the party were startled by a gleam 
of red splendor, that showed the huge shapes of the 
surrounding mountains, and the rock-bestrewn bed 
of the turbulent river, with an illumination unlike 
that of their fire, on the trunks and black boughs of 
the forest trees. They listened for the roll of thun- 
der, but heard nothing, and were glad that the tem- 
pest came not near them. The stars, those dial-points 
of Heaven, now warned the adventurers to close 
their eyes on the blazing logs, and open them, in 
dreams, to the glow of the Great Carbuncle. 

The young married couple had taken their lodg- 
ings in the furthest corner of the wigwam, and were 
separated from the rest of the party by a curtain of 
curiously woven twigs, such as might have hung, 
in deep festoons, around the bridal bower of Eve. 
The modest little wife had wrought this piece of 
tapestry, while the other guests were talking. She 
and her husband fell asleep with hands tenderly 
clasped, and awoke, from visions of unearthly radi- 
ance, to meet the more blessed light of one another’s 
eyes. They awoke at the same instant, and with 
one happy smile beaming over their two faces, which 
grew brighter, with their consciousness of the reality 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 211 


of life and love. But no sooner did she recollect 
where they were, than the bride peeped through the 
interstices of the leafy curtain, and saw that the 
outer room of the hut was deserted. 

‘Up, dear Matthew!’ cried she, in haste. ‘ The 
strange folk are all gone! Up, this very minute, or 
we shall lose the Great Carbuncle !’ 

In truth, so little did these poor young people de- 
serve the mighty prize which had lured them thither, 
that they had slept peacefully all night, and till the 
summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine ; 
while the other adventurers had tossed their limbs 
in feverish wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing 
precipices, and set off to realize their dreams with 
the earliest peep of dawn. But Matthew and Han- 
nah, after their calm rest, were as light as two young 
deer, and merely stopped to say their prayers, and 
wash themselves in a cold pool of the Amonoosuck, 
and then to taste a morsel of food, ere they turned 
their faces to the mountain side. It was a sweet 
emblem of conjugal affection, as they toiled up the 
difficult ascent, gathering strength from the mutual 
aid which they afforded. After several little acci- 
dents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe, and the 
entanglement of Hannah’s hair in a bough, they 
reached the upper verge of the forest, and were 
now to pursue a more adventurous course. The 
innumerable trunks and heavy foliage of the trees 
had hitherto shut in their thoughts, which now shrank 
affrighted from the region of wind, and cloud, and 
naked rocks, and desolate sunshine, that rose im- 


212 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


measurably above them. They gazed back at the 
obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and 
longed to be buried again in its depths, rather than 
trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. 

‘Shall we go on?’ said Matthew, throwing his 
arm round Hannah’s waist, both to protect her, and 
to comfort his heart by drawing her close to it. 

But the little bride, simple as she was, had a wo- 
man’s love of jewels, and could not forego the hope 
of possessing the very brightest in the world, in 
spite of the perils with which it must be won. 

‘Let us climb a little higher,’ whispered she, yet 
tremulously, as she turned her face upward to the 
lonely sky. 

‘Come then,’ said Matthew, mustering his manly 
courage, and drawing her along with him; for she 
became timid again, the moment that he grew bold. 

And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the 
Great Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and 
thickly interwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, 
by the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, 
had barely reached three feet in altitude. Next, 
they came to masses and fragments of naked rock, 
heaped confusedly together, like a cairn reared by 
giants, in memory of a giant chief. In this bleak 
realm of upper air, nothing breathed, nothing grew ; 
there was no life but what was concentred in their 
two hearts; they had climbed so high, that Nature 
herself seemed no longer to keep them company, 
She lingered beneath them, within the verge of the 
forest trees, and sent a farewell glance after her 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 213 


children, as they strayed where her own green foot- 
prints had never been. But soon they were to be 
hidden from her eye. Densely and dark, the mists 
began to gather below, casting black spots of shadow 
on the vast landscape, and sailing heavily to one 
centre, as if the loftiest mountain peak had summon- 
ed a council of its kindred clouds. Finally, the 
vapors welded themselves, as it were, into a mass, 
presenting the appearance of a pavement over which 
the wanderers might have trodden, but where they 
would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed 
earth which théy had lost. And the lovers yearned 
to behold that green earth again, more intensely, 
alas! than, beneath a clouded sky, they had ever 
desired a glimpse of Heaven. They even felt it a 
relief to their desolation, when the mists, creeping 
gradually up the mountain, concealed its lonely 
peak, and thus annihilated, at least for them, the 
_ whole region of visible space. But they drew closer 
together, with a fond and melancholy gaze, dreading 
lest the universal cloud should snatch them from 
each other’s sight. 

Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to 
climb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, 
as they could find foot-hold, if Hannah’s strength 
had not begun to fail, and with that, her courage 
also. Her breath grew short. She refused to bur- 
then her husband with her weight, but often tottered 
against his side, and recovered herself each time by 
a feebler effort. At last, she sank down on one of 
the rocky steps of the acclivity. 


214 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


‘We are lost, dear Matthew,’ said she, mourn- 
fully. ‘ We shall never find our way to the earth 
again. And, oh, how happy we might have been in 
our cottage ! ’ 

‘ Dear heart !— we will yet be happy there,’ an- 
swered Matthew. ‘ Look! In this direction, the sun- 
shine penetrates the dismal mist. By its aid, I can 
direct our course to the passage of the Notch. Let 
us go back, love, and dream no more of the Great 
Carbuncle !’ 

‘The sun cannot be yonder,’ said Hannah, with 
despondence. ‘By this time, it must be noon. If 
there could ever be any sunshine here, it would 
come from above our heads.’ 

‘But, look!’ repeated Matthew, in a somewhat 
altered tone. ‘It is brightening every moment. If 
not sunshine, what can it be ?’ 

Nor could the young bride any longer deny, that 
a radiance was breaking through the mist, and chang- 
ing its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually 
grew more vivid, as if brilliant particles were inter- 
fused with the gloom. Now, also, the cloud began 
to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heavily 
withdrew, one object after another started out of its 
impenetrable obscurity into sight, with precisely the 
effect of a new creation, before the indistinctness of 
the old chaos had been completely swallowed up. 
As the process went on, they saw the gleaming of 
water close at their feet, and found themselves on 
the very border of a mountain lake, deep, bright, 
clear, and calmly beautiful, spreading from brim to 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 215 


brim of a basin that had been scooped out of the 
solid rock. A ray of glory flashed across its surface. 
The pilgrims looked whence it should proceed, but 
closed their eyes with a thrill of awful admiration, 
to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from the 
brow of a cliff, impending over the enchanted lake. 
For the simple pair had reached that lake of mys- 
tery, and found the long-sought shrine of the Great 
Carbuncle ! 

They threw their arms around each other, and 
trembled at their own success ; for as the legends of 
this wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, 
they felt themselves marked out by fate —and the 
consciousness was fearful. Often, from childhood 
upward, they had seen it shining like a distant star. 
And now that star was throwing its intensest lustre 
on their hearts. ‘They seemed changed to one an- 
other’s eyes, in the red brilliancy that flamed upon 
their cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the lake, 
the rocks, and sky, and to the mists which had rolled 
back before its power. But, with their next glance, 
they beheld an object that drew their attention even 
from the mighty stone. At the base of the cliff, 
directly beneath the Great Carbuncle, appeared the 
figure of a man, with his arms extended in the act of 
climbing, and his face turned upward, as if to drink 
the full gush of splendor. But he stirred not, no 
more than if changed to marble. 

‘It is the Seeker,’ whispered Hannah, convulsively 
grasping her husband’s arm. ‘ Matthew, he is dead.’ 

‘The joy of success has killed him,’ replied 


216 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


Matthew, trembling violently. ‘Or perhaps the very 
light of the Great Carbuncle was death!’ 

‘The Great Carbuncle,’ cried a peevish voice be- 
hind them. ‘The Great Humbug! If you have 
found it, prithee point it out to me.’ 

They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, 
with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose, 
staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the 
distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great Car- 
buncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its 
light, as if all the scattered clouds were condensed 
about his person. Though its radiance actually threw 
the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he 
turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would 
not be convinced that there was the least glimmer 
there. 

‘ Where is your Great Humbug ?’ he repeated. ‘I 
challenge you to make me see it!” 

‘There,’ said Matthew, incensed at such perverse 
blindness, and turning the Cynic round towards the 
illuminated cliff. ‘Takeoff those abominable spec- 
tacles, and you cannot help seeing it!’ 

Now these colored spectacles probably darkened 
the Cynic’s sight, in at least as great a degree as the 
smoked glasses through which people gaze at an 
eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatch- 
ed them from his.nose, and fixed a bold stare full 
upon the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But, 
scarcely had he encountered it, when, with a deep, 
shuddering groan, he dropt his head, and pressed both 
hands across his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 217 


was, in very truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, 
nor any other light on earth, nor light of Heaven it- 
self, for the poor Cynic. So long accustomed to view 
all objects through a medium that deprived them of 
every glimpse of brightness, a single flash of so 
glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked vis- 
ion, had blinded him for ever. 

‘Matthew,’ said Hannah, clinging to him, ‘let us 
go hence!’ 

Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling 
down, supported her in his arms, while he threw 
some of the thrillingly-cold water of the enchanted 
lake upon her face and bosom. It revived her, but 
could not renovate her courage. 

‘Yes, dearest!’ cried Matthew, pressing her trem- 
ulous form to his breast, —‘ we will go hence, and 
return to our humble cottage. The blessed sunshine, 
and the quiet moonlight, shall come through our win- 
dow. We will kindle the cheerful glow of our 
hearth, at eventide, and be happy in its light. But 
never again will we desire more light than all the 
world may share with us.’ 

‘No,’ said his bride, ‘for how could we live by 
day, or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the 
Great Carbuncle!’ 

Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each 
a draught from the lake, which presented them its 
waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip: ‘Then, 
lending their guidance to the blinded Cynic, who ut- 
tered not a word, and even stifled his groans in his 
own most wretched heart, they began to descend the 


218 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


mountain. Yet, as they left the shore, till then un- 
trodden, of the Spirit’s lake, they threw a farewell 
glance towards the cliff, and beheld the vapors 
gathering in dense volumes, through which the gem 
burned duskily. 

As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Car- 
buncle, the legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful 
Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest, as a 
desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake 
himself again to his warehouse, near the town-dock, 
in Boston. But, as he passed through the Notch of 
the mountains, a war party of Indians captured our 
unlucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there 
holding him in bondage, till, by the payment of a 
heavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from his 
hoard of pine tree shillings. By his long absence, 
moreover, his affairs had become so disordered, that, 
for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, 
he had seldom a sixpence-worth of copper. Doctor 
Cacaphodel, the alchymist, returned to his laboratory 
with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he 
ground to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the 
crucible, and burnt with the blowpipe, and published 
the result of his experiments in one of the heaviest 
folios of the day. And, for all these purposes, the 
gem itself could not have answered better than the 
granite. ‘The poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, 
made prize of a great piece of ice, which he found 
in a sunless chasm of the mountains, and swore that 
it corresponded, in all points, with his idea of the 
Great Carbuncle. The critics say, that, if his poetry 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 219 


lacked the splendor of the gem, it retained all the 
coldness of the ice. The Lord de Vere went back 
to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself with 
a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled, in due course of 
time, another coffin in the ancestral vault. As the 
funeral torches gleamed within that dark receptacle, 
there was no need of the Great Carbuncle to show 
the vanity of earthly pomp. 

The Cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wan- 
dered about the world, a miserable object, and was 
punished with an agonizing desire of light, for the 
wilful blindness of his former life. ‘The whole night 
long, he would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the 
moon and stars; he turned his face eastward, at sun- 
rise, as duly as a Persian idolater ; he made a pilgrim- 
age to Rome, to witness the magnificent illumination 
of Saint Peter’s church; and finally perished in the 
great fire of London, into the midst of which he had 
thrust himself, with the desperate idea of catching 
one feeble ray from the blaze, that was kindling earth 
and heaven. 

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, 
and were fond of telling the legend of the Great Car- 
buncle. The tale, however, towards the close of 
their lengthened lives, did not meet with the full cre- 
dence that had been accorded to it by those, who re- 
membered the ancient lustre of the gem. For it is 
affirmed, that, from the hour when two mortals, had 
shown themselves so simply wise, as to reject a jewel 
which would have dimmed all earthly things, its 
splendor waned. When other pilgrims reached the 


220 THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


cliff, they found only an opaque stone, with particles 
of mica glittering on its surface. There is also a 
tradition that, as the youthful pair departed, the gem 
was loosened from the forehead of the cliff, and fell 
into the enchanted lake, and that, at noontide, the 
Seeker’s form may still be seen to bend over its 
quenchless gleam. 

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is 
blazing, as of old, and say that they have caught its 
radiance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down 
the valley of the Saco. And be it owned, that, many 
a mile from the Crystal Hills, I saw a wondrous light 
around their summits, and was lured, by the faith of 
poesy, to be the latest pilgrim of the Great Car- 
BUNCLE. 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 





THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.’ 


‘Bur this painter!’ cried Walter Ludlow, with 
animation. ‘He not only excels in his peculiar art, 
but possesses vast acquirements in all other learning 
and science. He talks Hebrew with Doctor Mather, 
and gives lectures in anatomy to Doctor Boylston. 
In a word, he will meet the best instructed man 
among us, on his own ground. Moreover, he is a 
polished gentleman —a citizen of the world — yes, 
a true cosmopolite ; for he will speak like a native 
of each clime and country on the globe, except our 
own forests, whither he is now going. Nor is all this 
what I most admire in him.’ 

‘Indeed!’ said Elinor, who had listened with a 


1 This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart, re- 
lated in Dunlap’s History of the Arts of Design —a most en- 
tertaining book to the general reader, and a deeply interesting 
one, we should think, to the artist. 


224 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES., 


woman’s interest to the description of such a man. 
‘ Yet this is admirable enough.’ 

‘Surely it is,’ replied her lover, ‘ but ‘far less so 
than his natural gift of adapting himself to every 
variety of character, insomuch that all men—and 
all women too, Elinor — shall find a mirror of them- 
selves in this wonderful painter. But the greatest 
wonder is yet to be told.’ 

‘Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than 
these,’ said Elinor, laughing, ‘ Boston is a perilous 
abode for the poor gentleman. Are you telling me 
of a painter, or a wizard ?’ 

‘In truth,’ answered he, ‘ that question might be 
asked much more seriously than you suppose. They 
say that he paints not merely a man’s features, but 
his mind and heart. He catches the secret senti- 
ments and passions, and throws them upon the can- 
vas, like sunshine —or perhaps, in the portraits of 
dark-souled men, like.a gleam of infernal fire. It is 
-an awful gift,’ added Walter, lowering his voice from 
its tone of enthusiasm. ‘I shall be almost afraid to 
sit to him.’ 

‘ Walter, are you in earnest?’ exclaimed Elinor. 

‘For Heaven’s sake, dearest Elinor, do not let 
him paint the look which you now wear,’ said her 
lover, smiling, though rather perplexed. ‘There: it 
is passing away now, but when you spoke, you 
seemed frightened to death, and very sad besides. 
What were you thinking of ?’” > 

‘Nothing; nothing,’ answered Elinor, hastily. 
‘You paint my face with your own fantasies. Well, 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 225 


come for me tomorrow, and we will visit this wonder- 
ful artist.’ 

But when the young man had departed, it cannot 
be denied that a remarkable expression was again 
visible on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. 
It was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance 
with what should have been the feelings of a maiden 
on the eve of wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the 
chosen of her heart. 

‘A look!’ said Elinor to herself. ‘No wonder 
that it startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes 
feel. I know, by my own experience, how frightful 
a look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought no- 
thing of it at the time—I have seen nothing of it 
since —I did but dream it.’ 

And she busied herself about the embroidery of a 
ruff, in which she meant that her portrait should be 
taken. 

The painter, of whom they had been speaking, 
was not one of those native artists, who at a later 
period than this, borrowed their colors from the In- 
dians, and manufactured their pencils of the furs of 
wild beasts. Perhaps, if he could have revoked his 
life and pre-arranged his destiny, he might have 
chosen to belong to that school without a master, in 
the hope of being at least original, since there were 
no works of art to imitate, nor rules to follow. But 
he had been born and educated in Europe. People 
said, that he had studied the grandeur or beauty of 
conception, and every touch of the master-hand, in 
all the most famous pictures, in cabinets and gal- 

VOL. I. 15 


226 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


leries, and on the walls of churches, till there was 
nothing more for his powerful mind to learn. Art 
could add nothing to its lessons, but Nature might. 
He had therefore .visited a world, whither none of 
his professional brethren had preceded him, to feast 
his eyes on visible images, that were noble and pic- 
turesque, yet had never been transferred to canvas. 
America was too poor to afford other temptations to 
an artist of eminence, though many of the colonial 
gentry, on the painter’s arrival, had expressed a wish 
to transmit their lineaments to posterity, by means of 
his skill. Whenever such proposals were made, he 
fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and seemed 
to look him through and through. If he beheld only 
a sleek and comfortable visage, though there were a 
gold-laced coat to adorn the picture, and golden 
guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and 
the reward. But if the face were the index of any- 
thing uncommon, in thought, sentiment, or experi- 
ence; or if he met a beggar in the street, witha 
white beard and a furrowed brow; or if, sometimes 
a child happened to look up and smile: he would 
exhaust all the art on them, that he denied to wealth. 

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the 
painter became an object of general curiosity. If 
few or none could appreciate the technical merit of 
his productions, yet there were points, in regard to 
which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as 
the refined judgment of the amateur. He watched 
the effect that each picture produced on such untu- 
tored beholders, and derived profit from their re- 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 227 


marks, while they would as soon have thought of 
instructing Nature herself, as him who seemed to 
rival her. ‘Their admiration, it must be owned, was 
tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. 
Some deemed it an offence against the Mosaic law, 
and even a presumptuous mockery of the Creator, to 
bring into existence such lively images of his crea- 
tures. Others, frightened at the art which could raise 
phantoms at will, and keep the form of the dead 
among the living, were inclined to consider the painter 
as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black Man, 
of old witch-times, plotting mischief in a new guise. 
These foolish fancies were more than half believed, 
among the mob. Even in superior circles, his char- 
acter was invested with a vague awe, partly rising 
like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, 
but chiefly caused by the varied knowledge and 
talents which he made subservient to his profession. 

Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and 
Elinor were eager to obtain their portraits, as the 
first of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long 
series of family pictures. The day after the conver- 
sation above recorded, they visited the painter's 
rooms. A servant ushered them into an apartment, 
where, though the artist himself was not visible, 
there were personages, whom they could hardly for- 
bear greeting with reverence. They knew, indeed, 
that the whole assembly were but pictures, yet felt 
it impossible to separate the idea of life and intellect 
from such striking counterfeits. Several of the por- 
traits were known to them, either as distinguished 


228 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


characters of the day, or their private acquaintances 
There was Governor Burnett, looking as if he had just 
received an undutiful communication from the House 
of Representatives, and were inditing a most sharp 
response. Mr. Cooke hung beside the ruler whom 
he opposed, sturdy, and somewhat puritanical, as be- 
fitted a popular leader. The ancient lady of Sir 
William Phipps eyed them from the wall, in ruff and 
farthingale, an imperious old dame, not unsuspected 
of witchcraft. John Winslow, then a very young 
man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise, which 
long afterwards made him a distinguished general. 
Their personal friends were recognised at a glance. 
In most of the pictures, the whole mind and charac- 
ter were brought out on the countenance, and con- 
centrated into a single look, so that, to speak para- 
doxically, the originals hardly resembled themselves 
so strikingly as the portraits did. 

Among these modern worthies, there were two old 
bearded Saints, who had almost vanished into the 
darkening canvas. There was also a pale, but un- 
faded Madonna, who had perhaps been worshiped in 
Rome, and now, regarded the lovers with such a mild 
and holy look, that they longed to worship too. 

‘How singular a thought,’ observed Walter Lud- 
low, ‘that this beautiful face has been beautiful for 
above two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty would 
endure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor ?’ 

‘If earth were Heaven, I might,’ she replied. 
‘But where all things fade, how miserable to be the 
one that could not fade !” 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 229 


‘This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly 
scowl, saint though he be,’ continued Walter. ‘ He 
troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at us.’ 

‘Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks,’ said Elinor. 

The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, 
sustaining one that had been recently commenced. 
' After a little inspection, they began to recognise the 
features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman, 
growing into shape and life, as’ it were, out of a cloud. 

‘Kind old man!’ exclaimed Elinor. ‘ He gazes 
at me, as if he were about to utter a word of paternal 
advice.’ 

‘ And at me,’ said Walter, ‘as if he were about to 
shake his head and rebuke me, for some suspected 
iniquity. But so does the original. I shall never 
feel quite comfortable under his eye, till we stand 
before him to be married.’ 

They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turn- 
ing, beheld the painter, who had been some moments 
in the room, and had listened to a few of their re- 
marks. He was a middle-aged man, with a counte- 
nance well worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by 
the picturesque, though careless arrangement of his 
rich dress, and, perhaps, because his soul dwelt 
always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat 
like a portrait himself. His visiters were sensible of 
a kindred between the artist and his works, and felt 
as if one of the pictures had stept from the canvas to 
salute them. ; 

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the 
painter, explained the object of their visit. While 


230 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


he spoke, a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure 
and Elinor’s, with so happy an effect, that they also 
seemed living pictures of youth and beauty, glad- 
dened by bright fortune. The artist was evidently 
struck. 

‘ My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, 
and my stay in Boston must be brief,’ said he, 
thoughtfully ; then, after an observant glance, he 
added : ‘ but your wishes shall be gratified, though I 
disappoint the Chief Justice and Madame Oliver. I 
must not lose this opportunity, for the sake of paint- 
ing a few ells of broadcloth and brocade.’ 

The painter expressed a desire to introduce both 
their portraits into one picture, and represent them — 
engaged in some appropriate action. This plan 
would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily 
rejected, because so large a space of canvas would 
have been unfit for the room which it was intended 
to decorate. Two half-length portraits were there- 
fore fixed upon. After they had taken leave, Wal- 
ter Ludlow asked Elinor, with a smile, whether she 
knew what an influence over their fates the painter 
was about to acquire. 

‘The old women of Boston affirm,’ continued he, 
‘that after he has once got possession of a person’s 
face and figure, he may paint him in any act or situ- 
ation whatever — and the picture will be prophetic. 
Do you believe it ?’ 

‘Not quite,” said Elinor, acting ‘Yet if he has 
such magic, there is something so gentle in his man- 
ner, that I am sure he will use it well.’ 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 231 


It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both 
the portraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, 
in the mystical language which he sometimes used, 
that the faces threw light upon each other. Accord- 
ingly, he gave now a touch to Walter, and now to 
Elinor, and the features of one and the other began 
to start forth so vividly, that it appeared as if his tri- 
umphant art would actually disengage them from the 
canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade, they 
beheld their phantom selves. But, though the like- 
ness promised to be perfect, they were not quite 
satisfied with the expression ; it seemed more vague 
than in most of the ‘painter’s works. He, however, 
was satisfied with the prospect of success, and being 
much interested in the lovers, employed his leisure 
moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon 
sketch of their two figures. During their sittings, he 
engaged them in conversation, and kindled up their 
faces with characteristic traits, which, though con- 
tinually varying, it was his purpose to combine and 
fix. At length he announced, that at their next visit 
both the portraits would be ready for delivery. 

‘If my pencil will but be true to my conception, 
in the few last touches which I meditate,’ observed 
he, ‘ these two pictures will be my very best per- 
formances. Seldom, indeed, has an artist such sub- 
jects.’ 

While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye 
upon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the 
bottom of the stairs. 

Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, 


232 THE PROPHETIC PCITURES. 


takes stronger hold of the imagination, than this 
affair of having a portrait painted. Yet why should 
it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of 
the andirons, the mirror-like water, and all other re- 
flecting surfaces, continually present us with portraits, 
or rather ghosts, of ourselves, which we glance at, 
and straightway forget them. But we forget them, 
only because they vanish. It is the idea of duration 
— of earthly immortality —that gives such a myste- 
rious interest to our own portraits. Walter and Eli- 
nor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened 
to the painter’s room, punctually at the appointed 
hour, to meet those pictured shapes, which were to 
be their representatives with posterity. The sun- 
shine flashed after them into the apartment, but left 
it somewhat gloomy, as they closed the door. 

Their eyes were immediately attracted to their 
portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of 
the room. At the first glance, through the dim light 
and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their 
natural attitudes, and with all the air that they recog- 
nised so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclama- 
tion of delight. 

‘There we stand,’ cried Walter, enthusiastically, 
‘ fixed in sunshine for ever! No dark passions can 
gather on our faces!’ 

* No,’ said Elinor, more calmly ; ‘no dreary change 
can sadden us.’ 

This was said while they were approaching, and 
had yet gained only an imperfect view of the pic- 
tures. ‘The painter, after saluting them, busied him- 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 30 


self at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving 
his visiters to form their own judgment as to his per- 
fected labors. At intervals, he sent.a glance from 
beneath his: deep eyebrows, watching their coun- 
tenances in profile, with his pencil suspended over 
the sketch. They had now stood some moments, 
each in front of the other’s picture, contemplating it 
with entranced attention, but without uttering a word. 
At length, Walter stepped forward — then back — 
viewing Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally 
spoke. 

‘Is there not a change ?” said he, in a doubtful 
and meditative tone. ‘Yes; the perception of it 
grows more vivid, the longer I look. It is certainly 
the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress — 
the features —all are the same; and yet something 
is altered.’ 

‘Ts then the picture less like than it was yesterday ?’ 
inquired the painter, now drawing near, with irrepres- 
sible interest. => 

‘The features are perfect Elinor,’ answered Wal-. 
ter; “and, at the first glance, the expression seemed 
also hers. But, I could fancy that the portrait has 
changed countenance, while I have been looking at 
it. The eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad 
and anxious expression. Nay, it is grief and terror! 
Is this like Elinor ?” 

‘Compare the living face with the pictured one,’ | 
said the painter. 

Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and start- 
ed. Motionless and absorbed — fascinated, as it 


234 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


were — in contemplation of Walter’s portrait, Elinor’s 
face had assumed precisely the expression of which 
he had just been complaining. Had she practised 
for whole hours before a mirror, she could not have 
caught the look so successfully. Had the picture 
itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back 
her present aspect, with stronger and more melan- 
choly truth. She appeared quite unconscious of the 
dialogue between the artist and her lover. 

‘Elinor,’ exclaimed Walter, in amazement, what 
change has come over you?’ 

She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed 
gaze, till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her 
notice; then, with a sudden tremor, she looked from 
the picture to the face of the original. 

‘Do you see no change in your portrait?’ asked 
she. 

‘In mine ?—None!’ replied Walter, examining 
it. ‘But let me see! Yes; there is a slight change 
—an improvement, I think, in the picture, though 
none in the likeness. It has a livelier expression 
than yesterday, as if some bright thought were flash- 
ing from the eyes, and about to be uttered from 
the lips. Now that I have caught the look, it be- 
comes very decided.’ 

While he was intent on these observations, Elinor 
turned to the painter. She regarded him with grief 
and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy 
and commiseration, though wherefore, she could but 
vaguely guess. 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 235 


‘That look!’ whispered she, and shuddered, 
‘ How came it there ?’ 

‘Madam,’ said the painter, sadly, taking her hand, 
and leading her apart, ‘in both these pictures, I have 
painted what I saw, The artist — the true artist — 
must look beneath the exterior. It is his gift — his 
proudest, but often a melancholy one —to see the 
inmost soul, and, by a power indefinable even to 
himself, to make it glow or darken upon the canvas, 
in glances that express the thought and sentiment of 
years. Would that I might convince myself of error 
in the present instance ! ” 

They had now approached the table, on which 
were heads in chalk, hands almost as expressive as 
ordinary faces, ivied church-towers, thatched cot- 
tages, old thunder-stricken trees, oriental and antique 
costume, and all such picturesque vagaries of an 
artist's idle moments. Turning them over, with 
seeming carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures 
was disclosed. 

‘If I have failed,’ continued he ; —‘ if your heart 
does not see itself reflected in your own portrait — if 
you have no secret cause to trust my delineation of 
the other—itis not yet too late to alter them. I 
might change the action of these figures too. But 
would it influence the event ? ’ 

He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran 
through Elinor’s frame ; a shriek was upon her lips 5 
but she stifled it, with the self-command that becomes 
habitual to all, who hide thoughts of fear and anguish 
within their bosoms. Turning from the table, she 


236 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to 
have seen the sketch, though she could not determine 
whether it had caught his eye. 

‘We will not have the pictures altered,’ said she, 
hastily. ‘If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer 
for the contrast.’ 

‘Be it so,’ answered the painter, bowing. ‘ May 
your griefs be such fanciful ones, that only your pic- 
ture may mourn for them! For your joys — may 
they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon 
this lovely face, till it quite belie my art!’ 

After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pic- 
tures formed the two most splendid ornaments of 
their abode. They hung side by side, separated by 
a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other con- 
stantly, yet always returning the gaze of the specta- 
tor. Travelled gentlemen, who professed a knowledge 
of such subjects, reckoned these among the most ad- 
mirable specimens of modern portraiture ; while com- 
mon observers compared them with the originals, fea- 
ture by feature, and were rapturous in praise of the 
likeness. But, it was on a third class, — neither 
travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but 
people of natural sensibility — that the pictures 
wrought their strongest effect. Such persons might 
gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming interested, 
would return day after day, and study these painted 
faces like the pages of a mystic volume. Walter 
Ludlow’s portrait attracted their earliest notice. In 
the absence of himself and his bride, they sometimes 
disputed as to the expression which the painter had 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 287 


intended to throw upon the. features; all agreeing | 
that there wasa look of earnest import, though no 
two explained it alike. There was less diversity of 
opinion in regard to Elinor’s picture. They differed, 
indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and 
depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her face, but 
agreed that it was gloom, and alien from the natural 
temperament of their youthful friend. A certain 
fanciful person announced, as the result of much 
scrutiny, that both these pictures were parts of one 
design, and that the melancholy strength of feeling, 
in Elinor’s countenance, bore reference to the more 
vivid emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, 
in that of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he 
even began a sketch, in which the action of the two 
figures was to correspond with their mutual ex- 
pression. 

It was whispered among friends, that, day by day, 
Elinor’s face was assuming a deeper shade of pen- 
siveness, which threatened soon to render her too 
true a’counterpart of her melancholy picture. Wal- 
ter, on the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid 
look which the painter had given him on the canvas, 
became reserved and downcast, with no outward 
flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering 
within. In course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous 
curtain of purple silk, wrought with flowers, and 
fringed with heavy golden tassels, before the pic- 
‘tures, undér pretence that the dust would tarnish 
their hues, or the light dim them. It was enough. 
Her visiters felt, that the massive folds of the silk 


238 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


must never be withdrawn, nor the portraits men- 
tioned in her presence. 

Time wore on; and the painter came again. He 
had been far enough to the north to see the silver 
cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the 
vast round of cloud and forest, from the summit of 
New England’s loftiest mountain. But he did not 
profane that scene by the mockery of his art. He 
had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake 
George, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness 
and grandeur, till not a picture in the Vatican was 
more vivid than his recollection. He had gone with 
the Indian hunters to Niagara, and there, again, had 
flung his hopeless pencil down the precipice, feeling 
that he could as soon paint the roar, as aught else 
that goes to make up the wondrous cataract. In 
truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural 
scenery, except as a frame-work for the delineations 
of the human form and face, instinct with thought, 
passion, or suffering. With store of such, his adven- 
turous ramble had enriched him ; the stern dignity 
of Indian chiefs; the dusky lovedahes of Indian girls; 
the domestic life of wigwams ; the stealthy march ; 
the battle beneath gloomy pine trees; the frontier 
fortress with its garrison; the anomaly of the old 
French partisan, bred in courts, but grown gray in 
shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and portraits 
that he had sketched. The glow of perilous mo- 
ments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce 
power — love, hate, srief, frenzy — in a word, all the 
worn-out heart of the old earth, had been revealed to 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 239 


him under a new form. His portfolio was filled with 
graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory, 
which genius would transmute into its own substance, 
and imbue with immortality. He felt that the deep 
wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was 
found. 

But, amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of 
the forest, or its overwhelming peacefulness, still 
there had been two phantoms, the companions of his 
way. Like all other men around whom an engross- 
ing purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the 
mass of human kind. He had no aim —no pleas- 
ure —no sympathies — but what were ultimately 
connected with his art. Though gentle in manner, 
and upright in intent and action, he did not possess 
kindly feelings ; his heart was cold; no living crea- 
ture could be brought near enough to keep him 
warm. For these two beings, however, he had felt, 
in its greatest intensity, the sort of interest which al- 
ways allied him to the subjects of his pencil. He 
had pried into their souls with his keenest insight, and 
pictured the result upon their features, with his ut- 
most skill, so as barely to fall short of that standard 
which no genius ever reached, his own severe con- 
ception. He had caught from the duskiness of the 
future—at least, so he fancied —a fearful secret, 
and had obscurely revealed it on the portraits. So 
much of himself—of his imagination and all other 
powers — had been lavished on the study of Walter 
and Elinor, that he almost regarded them as creations 
of his own, like the thousands with which he had 


240 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did they 
flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on the 
mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of the 
lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They haunt- 
ed his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life, nor 
pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits, 
each with the unalterable expression which his magic 
had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He could 
not recross the Atlantic, till he had again beheld the 
originals of those airy pictures. 

‘Oh, glorious Art!’ thus mused the enthusiastic 
painter, as he trod the street. ‘Thou art the image 
of the Creator’s own. ‘The innumerable forms, that 
wander in nothingness, start into being at thy beck. 
The dead live again. Thou recallest them to their 
old scenes, and givest their gray shadows the lustre 
of a better life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou 
snatchest back the fleeting moments of History. 
With thee, there is no Past; for, at thy touch, all that 
is great becomes for ever present; and illustrious men 
live through long ages, in the visible performance of 
the very deeds, which made them what they are. Oh, 
potent Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past 
to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight, which we 
call Now, canst thou summon the shrouded Future to 
meet her there? Have I not achieved it! Am I 
not thy Prophet?’ 

Thus, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, did he 
almost cry aloud, as he passed through the toilsome 
street, among people that knew not of his reveries, 
nor could understand nor care for them. It is not 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES, 241 


good for man to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless 
there be those around him, by whose example he may 
regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and hopes will 
become extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps 
the reality, of a madman. Reading other bosoms, 
with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter 
failed to see the disorder of his own. 

¢ And this should be the house,’ said he, looking up 
and down the front, before he knocked. ‘ Heaven 
help my brains! That picture! Methinks it will 
never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the 
door, there it is framed within them, painted strongly, 
and glowing in the richest tints — the faces of the por- 
traits — the figures and action of the sketch!’ 

He knocked. 

‘The Portraits! Are they within?’ inquired he, 
of the domestic; then recollecting himself —‘ your 
master and mistréss! Are they at home?’ 

‘They are, sir,’ said the servant, adding, as he 
noticed that picturesque aspect of which the painter 
could never divest himself, — ‘ and the Portraits too!’ 

The guest was admitted into a parlor, communica- 
ting by a central door, with an interior room of the 
same size. As the first apartment was empty, he 
passed to the entrance of the second, within which, 
his eyes were greeted by those living personages, as 
well as their pictured representatives, who had long 
been the objects of so singular an interest. He in- 
voluntarily paused on the threshold. 

They had not perceived his approach. Walter and 
Elinor were standing before the portraits, whence the 

VOL. I. 16 


242 THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


former had just flung back the rich and voluminous 
folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel 
with one hand, while the other grasped that of his 
bride. The pictures, concealed for months, gleamed 
forth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to 
throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to 
be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. ‘That of Elinor 
had been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next 
a gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her 
countenance, deepening, with the lapse of time, into 
a quiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now 
have made it the very expression of the portrait. 
Walter’s face was moody and dull, or animated only 
by fitful flashes, which left a heavier darkness for 
their momentary illumination. He looked from Ehi- 
nor to her portrait, and thence to his own, in the con- 
templation of which he finally stood absorbed. 

The painter seemed to hear thé step of Destiny 
approaching behind him, on its progress towards its 
victims. A strange thought darted into his mind. 
Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had 
embodied itself, and he a chief agent of the coming 
evil which he had foreshadowed ? 

Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, 
communing with it, as with his own heart, and aban- 
doning himself to the spell of evil influence, that the 
painter had cast upon the features. Gradually his 
eyes kindled; while as Elinor watched the increasing 
wildness of his face, her own assumed a look of ter- 
ror; and when at last, he turned upon her, the re- 
semblance of both to their portraits was complete. 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. : 243 


‘Our fate is upon us!’ howled Walter. ‘Die!’ 

Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sink- 
ing to the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. In the 
action, and in the look and attitude of each, the painter 
beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with 
all its tremendous coloring, was finished. 

* Hold, madman!’ cried he sternly. 

He had advanced from the door, and interposed 
himself between the wretched beings, with the same 
sense of power to regulate their destiny, as to alter a 
scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician, 
controlling the phantoms which he had evoked. 

‘What!’ muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed 
from fierce excitement into sullen gloom. ‘ Does 
Fate impede its own decree ?’ 


‘Wretched lady!’ said the painter. ‘Did I not 
warn you?’ 


‘You did,’ replied Elinor calmly, as her terror gave 
place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. ‘ But 
—I loved him!’ 

Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the 
result of one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and 
set before us—some would call it Fate, and hurry 
onward — others be swept along by their passionate - 
desires — and none be turned aside by the PRoPHETIC 
PICTURES. 


ce te aR 


rent’ 











DAVID SWAN. 


A FANTASY. 


WE can be but partially acquainted even with the 
events which actually influence our course through 
life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable 
other events, if such they may be called, which come 
close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, 
or even betraying their near approach, by the re- 
flection of any light or shadow across our minds. 
Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, 
life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or 
disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true 
serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page 
from the secret history of David Swan. 

We have nothing to do with David, until we find 
him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his 
native place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a 
small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him 
behind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was 


%48 DAVID SWAN. 


a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable pa- 
rents, and had received an ordinary school education, 
with a ¢lassic finish by a year at Gilmanton acad- 
emy. After journeying on foot, from sunrise till 
nearly noon of a summer’s day, his weariness and 
the increasing heat determined him to sit down in _ 
the first convenient shade, and await the coming up 
of the stage coach. As if planted on purpose for 
him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with 
a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh 
bubbling spring, that it seemed never to have sparkled 
for any wayfarer but David Swan. Virgin or not, he 
kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself 
along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts 
and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton 
handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him ; 
the dust did not yet rise from the road, after the 
heavy rain of yesterday ; and his grassy lair suited the 
young man better than a bed of down. The spring 
murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved 
dreamily across the blue sky, overhead; and a deep 
sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell 
upon David Swan. But we are to relate events 
which he did not dream of. 

While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other peo- 
ple were wide awake, and passed to and fro, a-foot, 
on horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the. 
sunny road by his bedchamber. Some looked neither 
to the right hand nor the left, and knew not that he 
was there; some merely glanced that way, without 
admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts ; 


DAVID SWAN. 249 


some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and sev- 
eral, whose hearts were brimming full of scorn, 
ejected their venomous superfluity on David Swan. 
A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, 
thrust her head a little way into the recess, and 
vowed that the young fellow looked charming in his 
sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought 
poor David into the texture of his evening’s discourse, 
as an awful instance of dead drunkenness by the 
road-side. But, censure, praise, merriment, scorn, 
and indifference, were all one, or rather all nothing, 
to David Swan. — 

He had slept only a few moments, when a brown 
carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled 
easily along, and was brought to a stand-still, nearly 
in front of David’s resting place. <A linch-pin had 
fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide 
off. The damage was slight, and occasioned merely 

a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his 
wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. 
While the coachman and a servant were replacing 
the wheel, the lady and gentleman sheltered them- 
selves beneath the maple trees, and there espied the 
bubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep beside it. 
Impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeper 
usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as 
lightly as the gout would allow ; and his spouse took 
good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest David 
should start up, all of a sudden. 

‘How soundly he sleeps!’ whispered the old gen- 
tleman. ‘From what a depth he draws that easy 


250 DAVID SWAN. 


breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without an 
opiate, would be worth more to me than half my 
income ; for it would suppose health, and an untrou- 
bled mind.’ 

‘And youth, besides,’ said the lady. ‘* Healthy and 
quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no. 
more like his, than our wakefulness.’ 

The longer they looked, the more did this elderly 
couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom 
the way-side and the maple shade were as a secret 
chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains 
brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam 
glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to 
twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And hay- 
ing done this little act of kindness, she began to feel 
like a mother to him. 

‘Providence seems to have laid him here,’ whis- 
pered she to her husband, ‘ and to have brought us 
hither to find him, after our disappointment in our 
cousin’s son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our 
departed Henry. Shall we waken him ?’ 

‘ To what purpose ?’ said the merchant, hesitating. 
‘We know nothing of the youth’s character.’ 

‘That open countenance!’ replied his wife, in the 
same hushed voice, yet earnestly. ‘This innocent 
sleep!’ 

While these whispers were passing, the sleeper’s 
heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, 
nor his features betray the least token of interest. 
Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let 
fall a burthen of gold. The old merchant had lost 


DAVID SWAN. 251 


his only son, and had no heir to his wealth, except a 
distant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatis- 
fied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger 
things than to act the magician, and awaken a young 
man to splendor, who fell asleep in poverty. 

‘Shall we not waken him?’ repeated the lady, 
persuasively. 

‘ The coach is ready, sir,’ said the servant, behind. 

The old couple started, reddened, and hurried 
away, mutually wondering, that they should ever 
have dreamed of doing any thing so very ridiculous. 
The merchant threw himself back in the carriage, 
and occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent 
asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, 
David Swan enjoyed his nap. 

The carriage could not have gone above a mile or 
two, when a pretty young girl came along, with a 
tripping pace, which showed precisely how her little 
heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this 
merry kind of motion that caused—is there any 
harm in saying it?—her garter to slip its knot. 
Conscious that the silken girth, if silk it were, was 
relaxing its hold,-she turned aside into the shelter of 
the maple trees, and there found a young man asleep 
by the spring! Blushing, as red as any rose, that 
she should have intruded into a gentleman’s bed- 
chamber, and for such a purpose too, she was about 
to make her escape on tiptoe. But, there was peril 
near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wan- 
dering overhead — buzz, buzz, buzz—now among 
the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sun- 


252 DAVID SWAN. 


shine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he 
appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. 
The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free- 
hearted as she was innocent, the girl attacked the 
intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, 
and drove him from beneath the maple shade. How 
sweet a picture! This good deed accomplished, 
with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole 
a glance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had 
been battling with a dragon in the air. 

‘He is handsome!’ thought she, and blushed red- 
der yet. 

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so 
strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, 
it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the 
girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile 
of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, 
the maid whose soul, according to the old and beau- 
tiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, 
in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to 
meet. Her, only, could he love with a perfect love 
— him, only, could she receive into the depths of her 
heart — and now her image was faintly blushing in 
the fountain, by his side; should it pass away, its 
happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again. 

‘ How sound he sleeps!’ murmured the girl. 

She departed, but did not trip along the road so 
lightly as when she came. 

Now, this girl’s father was a thriving‘country mer- 
chant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that 
identical time, to be looking out for just such a young 


DAVID SWAN. 253 


man as DavidSwan. Had David formed a way-side 
acquaintance with the daughter, he would have be- 
come the father’s clerk, and all else in natural succes- 
sion. So here, again, had good fortune — the best of 
fortunes — stolen so near, that her garments brushed 
against him ; and he knew nothing of the matter. 

The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men 
turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark 
faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down 
aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, 
yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of 
rascals, who got. their living by whatever the devil 
sent them, and now, in tbe interim of other business, 
had staked the joint profits of their next piece of vil- 
lany on a game of cards, which was to have been 
decided here under the trees. But, finding David 
asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to 
his fellow — 

‘ Hist !— Do you see that bundle under his head ?” 

The other villain nodded, winked, and leered. 

‘Ill bet you a horn of brandy,’ said the first, ‘ that 
the chap has either a pocketbook, or a snug little 
hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his 
shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his panta- 
loons’ pocket.’ 

‘But how if he wakes?’ said the other. ! 

His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed 
to the handle of a dirk, and nodded. 

‘So be it!’ muttered the second villain. 

They approached the unconscious David, and, 
while one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the 


* 


254 DAVID SWAN. 


other began to search the bundle beneath his head. 
Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with 
guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible 
enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly 
awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the 
spring, even they would hardly have known them- 
selves, as reflected there. But David Swan had never 
worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his 
mother’s breast. ; 

‘I must take away the bundle,’ whispered one. 

‘If he stirs, 1’ll strike,’ muttered the other. 

But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the 
ground, came in beneath the maple trees, and gazed 
alternately at each of these wicked men, and then 
at the quiet-sleeper. He then lapped out of the 
fountain. ; 

‘Pshaw!’ said one villain. ‘We can do nothing 
now. The dog’s master must be close behind.’ 

‘Let’s take a drink, and be off,’ said the other. 

The man, with the dagger, thrust back the weapon 
into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket-pistol, but not 
of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was 
a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed 
upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, 
and left the spot, with so many jests, and such 
laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that 
they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. 
In a few hours, they had forgotten the whole affair, 
nor once imagined that the recording angel had writ- 
ten down the crime of murder against their souls, in 
letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, 


DAVID SWAN. 255 


he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow 
of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of 
renewed life, when that shadow was withdrawn. 

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An 
_hour’s repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, 
the weariness with which many hours of toil had bur- 
thened it. Now, he stirred — now, moved his lips, 
without a sound — now, talked, in an inward tone, to 
the noonday spectres of his aan But a noise of 
wheels came rattling louder and louder along the 
road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of 
David’s slumber—and there was the stage coach. 
He started up, with all his ideas about him. 

* Halloo, driver! — Take a passenger ?’ shouted he. 

‘Room on top!’ answered the driver. 

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily to- 
wards Boston, without so much as a parting glance at 
that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not 
that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue 
upon its waters—nor that one of Love had sighed 
softly to their murmur— nor that one of Death had 
threatened to crimson them with his blood — all, in 
the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping 
or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the 
strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue 
a superintending Providence,. that, while viewless 
and unexpected events thrust themselves continually 
athwart our path, there should still be. regularity 
enough, in mortal life, to render foresight even par- 
tially available ? 


bet 


i, 





SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


Von. 1: | 17 


. bg ~ahs 
4 Sh ’ 


Ree. ee age 
: = e ; 


” ' 
PA we aft 





SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small. 
Here I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a 
dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me 
still. O that I could soar up into the very zenith, 
where man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and 
where the ethereal azure melts away from the eye, 
and appears only a deepened shade of nothingness! 
And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. 
What clouds are gathering in the golden west, with 
direful intent against the brightness and the warmth 
of this summer afternoon! ‘They are ponderous air- 
ships, black as death, and freighted with the tempest ; 
and at intervals their thunder, the signal-guns of that 
unearthly squadron, rolls distant along the deep of 
heaven. ‘These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor — me- 
thinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day 
long ! — seem scattered here and there, for the repose 
of tired pilgrims through the sky. Perhaps — for who 


260 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


can tell ? — beautiful spirits are disporting themselves 
there, and will bless my mortal eye with the brief 
appearance of their curly locks of golden light, and 
laughing faces, fair and faint as the people of a rosy 
dream. Or, where the floating mass so imperfectly 
obstructs the color of the firmament, a slender foot 
and fairy limb, resting too heavily upon the frail sup- 
port, may be thrust through, and suddenly withdrawn, 
while longing fancy follows them in vain. Yonder 
again is an airy archipelago, where the sunbeams love 
to linger in their journeyings through space. Every 
one of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped 
in radiance, which the slightest pressure might disen- 
gage in silvery profusion, like water wrung from a 
sea-maid’s hair. Bright they are as a young man’s 
visions, and like them, would be realized in chillness, 
obscurity and tears. I will look on them no more. 

In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is 
this spire, I discern cultivated fields, villages, white 
country seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid 
lakes, and here-and there a rising ground, that would 
fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea, 
stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue 
and calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow 
flits across its surface, and is gone. Hitherward, a 
broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge 
of the harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and 
over it am I, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. 
O that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like 
those of Madrid, and betray in smoky whispers, the 
secrets of all who, since their first foundation, have 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 261 


assembled at the hearths within! O that the Limping 
Devil of Le Sage would perch beside me here, ex- 
tend his wand over this contiguity of roofs, uncover 
every chamber, and make me familiar with their 
inhabitants! The most desirable mode of existence 
might be that of a spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering 
invisible round man and woman, witnessing their 
deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowing bright- 
ness from their felicity, and shade from their sorrow, 
and retaining no emotion peculiar to himself. But 
none of these things are possible; and if I would 
know the interior of brick walls, or the mystery of 
human bosoms, I can but guess. 

Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south. 
The stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of 
verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends 
from every door to the pavement.. Ornamental trees, 
the broad-leafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and 
bending, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others 
whereof I know not the. names, grow thrivingly among 
brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun are in- 
tereepted by these green citizens, and by the houses, 
so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant 
walk. On its whole extent there is now but a single 
passenger, advancing from the upper end; and he, 
unless distance, and the medium of a pocket spyglass 
do him more than justice, is a fine young man of 
twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping his 
left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes 
upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to 
throw a glance before him. Certainly, he has a pen- 


262 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


sive air. Is he in doubt, or in debt? Is he, if the 
question be allowable, in love ? Does he strive to be 
melancholy and gentlemanlike ? — Or, is he merely 
overcome by the heat? But Ibid him farewell, for 
the present. The door of one of the houses, an aris- 
tocratic edifice, with curtains of purple and gold 
waving from the windows, is now opened, and down 
the steps come two ladies, swinging their parasols, 
and lightly arrayed for a summer ramble. Both are 
young, both are pretty ; but methinks the left hand 
lass is the fairer of the twain; and though she be so 
serious at this moment, I could swear that there 
is a treasure of gentle fun within her. They stand 
talking a little while upon the steps, and finally pro- 
ceed up the street. Meantime, as their faces are 
now turned from me, I may look elsewhere. 

Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding 
street, is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I 
have just noticed. Business evidently has its centre 
there, and many a man is wasting the summer after- 
noon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches, or in gain- 
ing them, when he would be wiser to flee away to 
some pleasant country village, or shaded lake in the 
forest, or wild and cool sea-beach. I see vessels un- 
lading at the wharf, and precious merchandise strown 
upon the ground, abundantly as at the bottom of the 
sea, that market whence no goods return, and where 
there is no captain nor supercargo to render an ac- 
count of sales. Here, the clerks are. diligent with 
their paper and pencils, and sailors ply the block and 
tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 263 


toil with cries, long-drawn and roughly melédious, till 
the bales and puncheons ascend to upper air. Ata 
little distance, a group of gentlemen are assembled 
round the door of a warehouse. Grave seniors be 
they, and I would wager — if it were safe, in these 
times, to be responsible for any one — that the least 
eminent among them, might vie with old Vincentio, 
that incomparable trafficker of Pisa. I can even select 
the wealthiest of the company. It is the elderly per- 
sonage, in somewhat rusty black, with powdered. hair, 
the superfluous whiteness of which is visible upon the 
cape of his coat. His twenty ships are wafted on 
some of their many courses by every breeze that 
blows, and his name — I will venture to say, though 
I know it not — is a familiar sound among the far 
separated merchants of Europe and the Indies. 

But I bestow too much of my attention in this 
quarter. On looking again to the long and shady 
walk, I perceive that the two fair girls have encoun- 
tered the young man. After a sort of shyness in the 
recognition, he turns back with them. Moreover, he 
has sanctioned my taste in regard to his companions 
by placing himself on the inner side of the pavement, 
nearest the Venus to whom I — enacting, on a steeple- 
‘top, the part of Paris on the top of Ida — adjudged 
the golden apple. 

In two streets, converging at right angles towards 
my watchtower, | distinguish three different proces- 
sions. One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers in 
bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence 
I look down, the painted veterans that garrison the 


264 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


windows 6f a toy-shop. And yet, it stirs my heart; 
their regular advance, their nodding plumes, the sun- 
flash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the roll of 
their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and 
anon piercing through — these things have wakened 
a warlike fire, peaceful though I be. Close to their 
rear marches a battalion of schoolboys, ranged in 
crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, 
thumping a harsh and unripe clatter from an instru- 
ment of tin, and ridiculously aping the intricate ma- 
nceuvres of the foremost band. Nevertheless, as 
slight differences are scarcely perceptible from a 
church spire, one might be tempted to ask, * Which 
are the boys? ?— orrather, ‘ Which themen?’ But, 
leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, 
which, though sadder in outward show, may excite 
identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. It is a 
funeral. A hearse, drawn by a black and bony steed, 
and covered by a dusty pall; two or three coaches 
rumbling over the stones, their drivers half asleep; a 
dozen couple of careless mourners in their every-day 
attire ; such was not the fashion of our fathers, when 
they carried a friend to his grave. There is now no 
doleful clang of the bell, to proclaim sorrow to the 
town. Was the King of Terrors more awful in those 
days than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy — 
have been able to produce this change? Not so. 
Here is a proof that he retains his proper majesty. 
The military men, and the military boys, are wheel- 
ing round the corner, and meet the funeral-full in the 
face. Immediately, the drum is silent, all but the tap 


° 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 265 


that regulates each simultaneous foot-fall. » The sol- 
diers yield the path to the dusty hearse, and unpre- 
tending train, and the children quit their ranks, and 
cluster on the sidewalks, with timorous and instinctive 
curiosity. .The mourners enter the churchyard at the 
base of the steeple, and pause by an open grave 
among the burial stones; the lightning glimmers on 
them as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder 
rattles heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid. 
Verily, the shower is near, and I tremble for the 
young man and the girls, who have now disappeared 
from the long and shady street. 

How various are the situations of the people cover- 
ed by the roofs beneath me, aud how diversified are 
the events at this moment befalling them! The new- 
born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the 
recent dead, are in the chambers of these many man- 
sions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, 
and the desperate, dwell together within the circle of 
my glance. In some of the houses over which my 
eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts 
that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden 
virtue, — guilt is on the very edge of commission, 
and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is 
done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. 
There are broad thoughts struggling in my mind, 
and, were I able to give them distinctness, they would 
make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops 
are descending. . 

The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over 
all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in 


266 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals, the 
lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, 
disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling 
slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has 
sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and 
raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the 
approaching storm. ‘The disbanded soldiers fly, the 
funeral has already vanished like its dead, and all 
people hurry homeward — all that have a home; 
while a few lounge by the corners, or trudge on 
desperately, at theirleisure. In a narrow lane, which 
communicates with the shady street, I discern the rich 
old merchant, putting himself to the top of his speed, 
lest the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste. 
Unhappy gentleman! By the slow vehemence, and 
painful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but 
too evident that Podagra has left its thrilling tender- 
ness in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more 
rapid pace, come three other of my acquaintance, the 
two pretty girls and the young man, unseasonably 
interrupted in their walk. Their footsteps are sup- 
ported by the risen dust, the wind lends them its 
velocity, they fly like three sea-birds driven landward 
by the tempestuous breeze. The ladies would not 
thus rival Atalanta, if they but knew that any one 
were at leisure to observe them. Ah! as they hasten 
onward, laughing in the angry face cf nature, a sud- 
den catastrophe has chanced. At the corner where 
the narrow lane enters into the street, they come 
plump against the old merchant, whose tortoise mo- 
tion has just brought him to that point. He likes not 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 267 


the sweet encounter; the darkness of the whole air 
gathers speedily upon his visage, and there is a pause 
on both sides. Finally, he thrusts aside the youth 
with little courtesy, seizes an arm of each of the 
two girls, and plods onward, like a magician with a 
prize of captive fairies. All this is easy to be under- 
stood. How disconsolate the poor lover stands! re- 
gardless of the rain that threatens an exceeding dam- 
age to his well-fashioned habiliments, till he catches 
a backward glance of mirth from a bright eye, and 
turns away with whatever comfort it conveys. 

The old man and his daughters are safely housed, 
and now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwell- 
ing I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they 
shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous 
shower, and shrinking away from the quick fiery glare. 
The large drops descend with force upon the slated 
roofs, and rise again in smoke. ‘There is a rush and 
roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy streams 
bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their 
dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath 
iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not my 
station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult which I 
am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue light- 
ning wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder mutter- 
ing its first awful syllables in my ear. I will descend. 
Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the 
foam breaks out in long white lines upon a broad ex- 
panse of blackness, or boils up in far distant points, 
like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and 
let me leok once more at the green plain, and little 


268 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm 
is striding in robes of mist, and at the town whose 
obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of 
the dead: and turning a single moment to the sky, 
now -gloomy as an author’s prospects, I prepare to 
resume my station on lower earth. But stay! A 
little speck of azure has widened in the western 
heavens ; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoic- 
ing through the tempest; and on yonder darkest 
cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of 
another world, and the trouble and tears of this, bright- 
ens forth the Rainbow ! 


_ THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 


3 


. 





THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 


In those strange old times, when fantastic dreams 
and madmen’s reveries were realized among the ac- 
tual circumstances of life, two persons met together at 
an appointed hour and place. One was a lady, grace- 
ful in form and fair of feature, though pale and trou- 
bled, and smitten with an untimely blight in what 
should have been the fullest bloom of her years; the 
other was an ancient and meanly dressed woman, of 
ill-favored aspect, and so withered, shrunken and de- 
crepit, that even the space since she began to decay 
must have exceeded the ordinary term of human 
existence. In the spot where they encountered, no 
mortal could observe them. ‘Three little hills stood 
near each other, and down in the midst of them sunk 
a hollow basin, almost mathematically circular, two or 
three hundred feet in breadth, and of such depth that a 
stately cedar might but just be visible above the sides. 
Dwarf pines were numerous upon the hills, and partly 


CT2 HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 


fringed the outer verge of the intermediate hollow ; 
within which there was nothing but the brown grass of 
October, and here and there a tree-trunk, that had fallen 
long ago, and lay mouldering with no green successor 
from its roots. One of these masses of decaying wood, 
formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of 
green and sluggish water at the bottom of the basin. 
Such scenes as this (so gray tradition tells) were once 
the resort of a Power of Evil and his plighted sub- 
jects; and here, at midnight or on the dim verge of 
evening, they were said to stand round the mantling 
pool, disturbing its putrid waters in the performance 
of an impious baptismal rite. The chill beauty of 
an autumnal sunset was now gilding the three hill- 
tops, whence a paler tint stole down their sides into 
the hollow. 

‘Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,’ said — 
the aged crone, ‘ according as thou hast desired. Say 
quickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is 
but a short hour that we may tarry here.’ 

As the old withered woman spoke, a smile glim- 
mered on her countenance, like lamplight on the wall 
of a sepulchre. The lady trembled, and cast her 
eyes upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditat- 
ing to return with her purpose unaccomplished. But 
it was not so ordained. 

‘I am stranger in this land, as you know,’ said she 
at length. ‘ Whence I come it matters not ; — but I 
have left those behind me with whom my fate was 
intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off for 
ever.’ There is a weight in my bosom that I cannot 


HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 273 


“away with, and I have come hither to inquire of their 
welfare.’ 

‘And who is there by this green pool, that can 
bring thee news from the ends of the Earth?’ cried 
the old woman, peering into the lady’s face. ‘Not 
from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet, be 
thou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from 
yonder hill-top, before thy wish be granted.’ 

‘I will do your bidding though I die,’ replied the 
lady desperately. 

The old'woman seated herself on the trunk of the 
fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her 
gray locks, and beckoned her companion to draw neare 

‘Kneel down,’ she said, ‘ and lay your forehead on 
my knees.’ 

She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety, that had 
long been kindling, burned fiercely up within her, 
As she knelt down, the border of her garment was 
dipped into the pool; she laid her forehead on the 
old woman’s knees, and the latter drew a cloak about 
the lady’s face, so that she was in darkness. Then 
she heard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst 
of which she started, and would have arisen. 

‘Let me flee, —let me flee and hide myself, that 
they may not look upon me!’ she cried. But, with 
returning recollection, she hushed herself, and was 
still as death. 

For it seemed as if other voices, — familiar in in- 
fancy, and unforgotten through many wanderings, 
"and in all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune — 
were mingling with the accents of the prayer. At 

VOL. I. 18 


274 HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 


first the words were faint and indistinct, not rendered 
so by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages 
of a book, which we strive to read by an imperfect 
and gradually brightening light. In sucha mamner, as 
the prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon 
the ear; till at length the petition ended, and the con- 
versation of an aged man, and of a woman broken and 
decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to the 
lady as she knelt. But those strangers appeared not 
to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills. 
Their voices were encompassed and reéchoed by the 
walls of a chamber, the windows of which were rat- 
tling in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, 
the crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers 
as they fell among the ashes, rendered the scene al- 
most as vivid as if painted to the eye. By a melan- 
choly hearth sat these two old people, the man calmly 
despondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and 
their words were all of sorrow. They spoke of a 
daughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing 
dishonor along with her, and leaving shame and 
affliction to bring their gray heads to the grave. They 
alluded also to other and more recent woe, but in the 
midst of their talk, their voices seemed to melt into 
the sound of the wind sweeping mournfully among 
the autumn leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, 
there was she kneeling in the hollow between three 
hills. 

‘A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple 
have of it,’ remarked the old woman, smiling in the 
lady’s face. | ( 


HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 275 


‘ And did you also hear them!’ exclaimed she, a 
sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her 
agony and fear. 

‘Yea; and we have yet more to hear,’ replied the 
old woman. ‘ Wherefore, cover thy face quickly.’ 

Again the withered hag poured forth the monoto- 
nous words of a prayer that was not meant to be 
acceptable in Heaven; ahd soon, in the pauses of 
her breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, 
gradually increasing so as to drown and overpower 
the charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced 
through the obscurity of sound, and were succeeeded 
by the singing of sweet female voices, which in their 
turn gave way to a wild roar of laughter, broken sud- 
denly by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a 
ghastly confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. 
Chains were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered 
threats, and the scourge resounded at their command. 
All these noises deepened and became substantial to 
the listener’s ear, till she could distinguish every soft 
and dreamy accent of the love songs, that died cause- 
lessly into funeral hymns. She shuddered at the un- 
provoked wrath which blazed up like the spontane- 
ous kindling of flame, and she grew faint at the fear- 
ful merriment, raging miserably around her. In the 
midst of this wild scene, where unbound passions 
jostled each other in a drunken career, there was one 
solemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious 
voice it might once have been. He went to-and-fro 
continually, and his feet sounded upon the floor. In 
each member of that frenzied company, whose own 


276 HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 


burning thoughts had become their exclusive world, 
he sought an auditor for the story of his individual 
wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as his 
reward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman’s per- 
fidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of 
a home and heart made desolate. Even as he went 
on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek, the sob, rose up 
in unison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful, 
and uneven sound of the wind, as it fought among 
the pine trees on those three lonely hills. The lady 
looked up, and there was the withered woman smiling 
in her face. 

‘ Couldst thou have thought there were such merry 
times in a Mad House ? ” inquired the latter. 

‘True, true, said the lady to herself; ‘there is 
mirth within its walls, but misery, misery without.’ 

‘Wouldst thou hear more?’ demanded the old 
woman. 

‘There is one other voice I would fain listen to 
again,’ replied the lady, faintly. 

‘Then lay down thy head speedily upon my knees 
that thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be 
past.’ 

The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon 
the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and 
the pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to 
overspread the world. Again that evil woman began 
to weave her spell. Long did it proceed unanswer- 
ed, till the knolling of a bell stole in among the inter- 
vals of her words, like a clang that had travelled far 
over valley and rising ground and was just ready to 


HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. pag htt 


die in the air. The lady shook upon her compan- 
ion’s knees, as she heard that boding sound. Stronger 
it grew and sadder, and deepened into the tone of a 
death-bell, knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled 
tower, and bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the 
cottage, to the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer, 
that all might weep for the doom appointed in turn 
to them. Then came a measured tread, passing 
slowly, slowly on, as of mourners with a coffin, their 
garments trailing on the ground, so that the ear could 
measure the length of their melancholy array. Be- 
fore them went the priest, reading the burial service, 
while the leaves of his book were rustling in the 
breeze. And though no voice but his was heard to 
speak aloud, still there were revilings and anathemas, 
whispered but distinct, from women and from men, 
breathed against the daughter who had wrung the 
aged hearts of her parents, — the wife who had be- 
trayed the trusting fondness of her husband, — the 
mother who had sinned against natural affection, and 
left her child to die. The sweeping sound of the 
funeral train faded away like a thin vapor, and the 
wind, that just before had seemed to shake the coffin- 
pall, moaned sadly round the verge of the Hollow 
between three Hills. But when the old woman stirred 
the kneeling lady, she lifted not her head. 

‘Here has been a sweet hour’s sport!’ said the 
withered crone, chuckling to herself. 






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THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 





THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


A SEKEETCH OF TRANSITORY LIFE. 


MetuiInxKs, for a person whose instinct bids him 
rather to pore over the current of life, than to plunge 
into its tumultuous waves, no undesirable retreat were 
a toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare of the 
land. In youth, perhaps, it is good for the observer 
_to run about the earth —to leave the track of his foot- 
steps far and wide — to mingle himself with the action 
of numberless vicissitudes —and, finally, in some 
calm solitude, to feed a musing spirit on all that he 
has seen and felt. But there are natures too indolent, 
or too sensitive, to endure the dust, the sunshine, or 
the rain, the turmoil of moral and physical elements, 
to which all the wayfarers of the world expose them- 
selves. For such a man, how pleasant a miracle, 
could life be made to roll its variegated length by the 
threshold of his own hermitage, and the great globe, 
as it were, perform its revolutions and shift its thou- 
sand scenes before his eyes without whirling him 


282 THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


onward in its course. If any mortal be favored with 
a lot analogous to this, it is the toll-gatherer. So, at 
least, have I often fancied, while lounging on a bench 
at the door of a small square edifice, which stands 
between shore and shore in the midst of a long bridge. 
Beneath the timbers ebbs and flows an arm of the 
sea; while above, like the life-blood through a great 
artery, the travel of the north and east is continually 
throbbing. Sitting on the aforesaid bench, I amuse 
myself with a conception, illustrated by numerous 
pencil-sketches in the air, of the toll-gatherer’s day. 

In the morning —dim, gray, dewy summer’s 
morn — the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins 
to mingle with my old friend’s slumbers, creaking 
more and more harshly through the midst of his 
dream, and gradually replacing it with realities. 
Hardly conscious of the change from sleep to wake- 
fulness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing 
wide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load 
of hay. The timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving 
wheels; one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, 
and, peering from the summit of the hay, by the 
glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the 
toll-house, is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade, 
who has enjoyed a nap some ten miles long. The 
toll is paid—creak, creak, again go the wheels, and 
the huge hay-mow vanishes into the morning mist. 
As yet, nature is but half awake, and familiar objects 
appear visionary. But yonder, dashing from the 
shore with a rattling thunder of the wheels and a con- 
fused clatter of hoofs, comes the never-tiring mail, 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 283 


which has hurried onward at the same headlong, rest- 
less rate, all through the quiet night. The bridge 
resounds in one continued peal as the coach rolls on 
without a pause, merely affording the toll-gatherer a 
glimpse at the sleepy passengers, who now bestir their 
torpid limbs, and snuff a cordial in the briny air. The 
morn breathes upon them and blushes, and they for- 
get how wearily the darkness toiled away. And 
behold now the fervid day, in his bright chariot, glit- 
tering aslant over the waves, nor scorning to throw a 
tribute of his golden beams on the toll-gatherer’s 
little hermitage. . The old man looks eastward, and 
(for he isa moralizer) frames a simile of the stage- 
coach and the sun. 

While the world is rousing itself, we may glance 
slightly at the scene of our sketch. It sits above the 
bosom of the broad flood, a spot not of earth, but in 
the midst of waters, which rush with a murmuring 
sound among the massive beams beneath. Over the 
door is a weather-beaten board, inscribed with the rates 
of toll, in letters so nearly effaced that the gilding of 
the sunshine can hardly make them legible. Beneath 
the window is a wooden bench, on which a long suc- 
cession of weary wayfarers have reposed themselves. 
Peeping within doors, we perceive the whitewashed 
walls bedecked with sundry lithographic prints and 
advertisements of various import, and the immense 
show-bill of a wandering caravan. And there sits 
our good old toll-gatherer, glorified by the early sun- 
beams. He is a man, as his aspect may announce, 
of quiet soul, and thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, 


= 


284 THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


who, of the wisdom which the passing world scatters 
along the wayside, has gathered a reasonable store. 
Now the sun smiles upon the landscape, and earth 
smiles back again upon the sky. Frequent, now, are 
the travellers. The toll-gatherer’s practised ear can 
distinguish the weight of every vehicle, the number 
of its wheels, and how many horses beat the resound- 
ing timbers with their iron tramp. Here, in a sub- 
stantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to take 
advantage of the dewy road, come a gentleman and 
his wife, with their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting 
gladsomely between them. The bottom of the chaise 
is heaped with multifarious band-boxes and carpet 
bags, and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk, 
dusty with yesterday’s journey. Next appears a four- 
wheeled carryall, peopled with a round half dozen of 
pretty girls, all drawn by a single horse, and driven 
by a single gentleman. | Luckless wight, doomed, 
through a whole summer day, to be the butt of mirth 
and mischief among the frolicksome maidens! Bolt 
upright in a sulky rides a thin, sour-visaged man, 
who, as he pays his toll, hands the toll-gatherer a 
printed card to stick upon the wall. The vinegar- 
faced traveller proves to be a manufacturer of pickles. 
Now paces slowly from timber to timber a horseman 
clad in black, with a meditative brow, as of one who, 
whithersoever his steed might bear him, would still 
journey through a mist of brooding thought. He is 
a country preacher, going to labor at a protracted 
meeting. The next object passing townward is a 
butcher’s cart, canopied with its arch of snow-white 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY, 285 


cotton. Behind comes a ‘sauceman,’ driving a wa- 
gon full of new potatoes, green ears of corn, beets, 
carrots, turnips, and summer squashes; and next, 
two wrinkled, withered, witch-looking old gossips, in 
an antediluvian chaise, drawn by a horse of former 
generations, and going to peddle out a lot of huckle- 
berries. See there, a man trundling a wheelbarrow 
load of lobsters. And now a milk-cart rattles briskly 
onward, covered with green canvas, and conveying 
the contributions of a whole herd of cows, in large 
tin canisters. But let all these pay their toll and 
pass. Here comes a spectacle that causes the old 
toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if the travellers 
brought sunshine with them and lavished its gladsome 
influence all along the road. 

It is a barouche of the newest style, the varnished 
panels of which reflect the whole moving panorama 
of the landscape, and show a picture, likewise, of our 
friend, with his visage broadened, so that his medita- 
tive smile is transformed to, grotesque merriment. 
Within, sits a youth, fresh as the summer morn, and 
beside him a young lady in white, with white gloves 
upon her slender hands, and a white veil flowing 
down over her face. But methinks her blushing 
cheek burns through the snowy veil. Another white- 
robed virgin sits in front. And who are these, on 
whom, and on all that appertains to them, the dust of 
earth seems never to have settled? ~Two lovers, 
whom the priest has blessed, this blessed morn, and 
sent them forth, with ene of the bridemaids,’on the 
matrimonial tour. Take my blessing too, ye happy 


286 THE TCLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


ones! May the sky not frown upon you, nor clouds 
bedew you with their chill and sullen rain ! May the 
hot sun kindle no fever in your hearts! May your 
whole life’s pilgrimage be as blissful as this first 
day’s journey, and its close be gladdened with even 
brighter anticipations than those which hallow your 
bridal night ! 

They pass ; and ere the reflection of their joy has 
faded from his face, another spectacle throws a me- 
lancholy shadow over the spirit of the observing man. 
In a close carriage sits a fragile figure, muffled care- 
fully, and shrinking even from the mild breath of 
summer. She leans against a manly form, and his 
arm enfolds her, as if to guard his treasure from 
some enemy. Let but a few weeks pass, and when 
he shall strive to embrace that loved one, he will 
press only desolation to his heart. 

And now has morning gathered up her dewy 
pearls, and fled away. The sun rolls blazing through 
the sky, and cannot find a cloud to cool his face with. 
The horses toil sluggishly along the bridge, and heave 
their glistening sides in short quick pantings, when 
the reins are tightened at the toll-house. Glisten, too, 
the faces of the travellers. . Their garments are 
thickly bestrewn with dust; their whiskers and hair 
look hoary ; their throats are choked with the dusty 
atmosphere which they have left behind them. No 
air is stirring on the road. Nature dares draw no 
breath, lest she should inhale a stifling cloud of dust. 
‘A hot and dusty day!’ cry the poor pilgrims, as 
they wipe their begrimed foreheads, and woo the 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 287 


doubtful breeze which the river bears along with it. 
* Awful hot! Dreadful dusty!’ answers the sympa- 
thetic toll-gatherer. They start again, to pass through 
the fiery furnace, while he reénters his cool hermit- 
age, and besprinkles it with a pail of briny water 
from the stream beneath. He thinks within himself, 
that the sun is not so fierce here as elsewhere, and 
that the gentle air doth not forget him in these sultry 
days. Yes, old friend; and a quiet heart will make 
a dog-day temperate. He hears a weary footstep, 
and perceives a traveller with pack and staff, who 
sits down upon the hospitable bench, and removes 
the hat from his wet brow. The toll-gatherer admin- 
isters a cup of cold water, and discovering his guest 
to be a man of homely sense, he engages him in pro- 
fitable talk, uttering the maxims of a_ philosophy 
which he has found in his own soul, but knows not 
how it came there. And as the wayfarer makes 
ready to resume his journey, he tells him a sovereign 
remedy for blistered feet. 

Now comes the noon-tide hour — of all the hours, 
nearest akin to midnight ; for each has its own calm- 
nessand repose. Soon, however, the world begins to 
turn again upon its axis, and itseems the busiest epoch 
of the day ; when an accident impedes the march of 
sublunary things. The draw being lifted to permit 
the passage of a schooner, laden with wood from the 
eastern forests, she sticks immovably, right athwart 
the bridge! Meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm, 
a throng of impatient travellers fret and fume. Here 
are two sailors in a gig, with the top thrown back, 


288 THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


both puffing cigars, and swearing all sorts of fore- 
castle oaths; there, in a smart chaise, a dashingly 
dressed gentleman and lady, he from a tailor’s shop- 
board, and she from a milliner’s back room — the 
aristocrats of a summer afternoon. And what are 
the haughtiest of us, but the ephemeral aristocrats of 
asummer’s day? Here is a tin-pedler, whose glit- 
tering ware bedazzles all beholders, like a travelling 
meteor, or opposition sun; and on the other side a 
seller of spruce beer, which brisk liquor is confined 
in several dozen of stone bottles. Here come a 
party of ladies on horseback, in green riding-habits, 
and gentlemen attendant; and there a flock of sheep 
for the market, pattering over the bridge with a multi- 
tudinous clatter of their little hoofs. Here a French- 
man, with a hand-organ on his shoulder; and there 
an itinerant Swiss jeweller. On this side, heralded 
by a blast of clarions and bugles, appears a train of 
wagons, conveying all the wild beasts of a caravan ; 
and on that, a company of summer soldiers, march- 
ing from village to village on a festival campaign, 
attended by the ‘ brass band.’. Now look at the scene, 
and it presents an emblem of the mysterious confu- 
sion, the apparently insolvable riddle, in which indi- 
_viduals, or the great world itself, seem often to be 
involved. What miracle shall set all. things right 
again ? ; 

But see! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcass 
through the chasm; the draw descends ; horse and 
foot pass onward, and leave the bridge vacant from 
end to end. ‘And thus,’ muses the toll-gatherer, 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 289 


‘have I found it with all stoppages, even though the 
universe seemed to be at a stand.’ The sage old 
man ! 

Far westward now, the reddening sun throws a 
broad sheet of splendor across the flood, and to the 
eyes of distant boatmen gleams brightly among the 
timbers of the bridge. Strollers come from the town 
to quaff the freshening breeze. One or two let down 
long lines, and haul up flapping flounders, or cun- 
ners, or small cod, or perhaps an eel. Others, and 
fair girls among them, with the flush of the hot day 
still on their cheeks, bend over the railing and watch 
the heaps of sea-weed floating upward with the flow- 
ing tide. The horses now tramp heavily along the 
bridge, and wistfully bethink them of their stables. 
Rest, rest, thou weary world! for to-morrow’s round 
of toil and pleasure will be as wearisome as to-day’s 
has been; yet both shall bear thee onward a day’s 
march of eternity. Now the old toll-gatherer looks 
seaward, and discerns the light house kindling on a 
far island, and the stars, too, kindling in the sky, as 
if but a little way beyond; and mingling reveries of 
Heaven with remembrances of Earth, the whole pro- 
cession of mortal travellers, all the dusty pilgrimage 
which he has witnessed, seems like a flitting show of 
phantoms for his thoughtful soul to muse upon. 


VOL. 19 





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THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 





THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 


Ar fifteen, I became a resident in a country village, 
more than a hundred miles from home. The morning 
after my arrival—a September morning, but warm 
and bright as any in July —I rambled into a wood of 
oaks, with a few walnut trees intermixed, forming the 
closest shade above my head. The ground was 
rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of 
young saplings, and traversed only by cattle-paths. 
The track, which I chanced to follow, led me to a 
crystal spring, with a border of grass, as freshly 
green as on May morning, and overshadowed by the 
limb of a great oak. One solitary sunbeam found its 
way down, and played like a goldfish in the water. 
From my childhood, I have loved to gaze into a 
spring. The water filled a circular basin, small but 
deep, and set round with stones, some of which were 
covered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of 
variegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. The bot- 


294 THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 


tom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled 
in the lonely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate the 
spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot, the 
gush of the water violently agitated the sand, but 
without obscuring the fountain, or breaking the glass- 
iness of its surface. It appeared as if some living 
creature were about to emerge, the Naiad of the 
spring, perhaps, in the shape of a beautiful young 
woman, with a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of 
rainbow drops, and a cold, pure, passionless counte- 
nance. How would the beholder shiver, pleasantly, 
yet fearfully, to see her sitting on one of the’ stones, 
paddling her white feet in the ripples, and throwing 
up water, to sparkle in the sun! Wherever she laid 
her hands on grass and flowers, they would imme- 
diately be moist, as with morning dew. Then would 
she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to 
clear the fountain of withered leaves, and bits of 
slimy wood, and old acorns from the oaks above, and 
grains of corn left by cattle in drinking, till the bright 
sand, in the bright water, were like a treasury of 
diamonds. But, should the intruder approach too 
near, he would find only the drops of a summer 
shower, glistening about the spot where he had seen 
her. 
Reclining on the border of grass, where the dewy 
goddess should have been, I bent forward, and a pair 
of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They 
were the reflection of my own. I looked again, and 
lo! another face, deeper in the fountain than my 
own image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 295 


as thought. The vision had the aspect of a fair 
young girl, with locks of paly gold. A mirthful ex- 
pression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the 
whole shadowy countenance, till it seemed. just what 
a fountain would be, if, while dancing merrily into 
the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. 
Through the dim rosiness of the cheeks, I could see 
the brown leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and 
the sparkling sand. The solitary sunbeam was dif- 
fused among the golden hair, which melted into its 
faint brightness, and became a glory round that head 
so beautiful ! 

My description can give no idea how suddenly the 
fountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left 
desolate. I breathed; and there was the face! I 
held my breath; and it was gone! Had it passed 
away, or faded into nothing? I doubted whether it 
had ever been. 

My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious 
hour did I spend, where that vision found and left 
me! For a long time, I sat perfectly still, waiting 
till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest 
motion, or even the flutter of my breath, might fright- 
en it away. Thus have I often started fae a pleas- 
ant dream, and then kept quiet, in hopes to wile it 
back. Race were my musings, as to the race and 
attributes of that ethereal being. Had I created her? 
Was she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those 
strange shapes which peep under the lids of child- 
ren’s eyes? And did her beauty gladden me, for 
that one moment, and then die? Or was she a 


296 THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 


water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy, or wood- 
land goddess, peeping over my shoulder, or the 
ghost of some forsaken maid, who had drowned her- 
self for love? Or, in good truth, had a lovely girl, 
with a warm heart, and lips that would bear pressure, 
stolen softly behind me, and thrown her image into 
the spring ? 

I watched and waited, but no vision came again. 
I departed, but with a spell upon me, which drew 
me back, that same afternoon, to the haunted spring. 
There was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, 
and the sunbeam glimmering. There the vision was 
not, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, 
who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and 
made himself invisible, all except a pair of long legs, 
beneath a stone. Methought he had a devilish look ! 
I could have slain him as an enchanter, who kept the 
mysterious beauty imprisoned in the fountain. 

Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Be- 
tween me and the church spire, rose a little hill, and 
on its summit a group of trees, insulated from all the 
rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance 
hovering on them from the west, and their own soli 
tary shadow falling to the east. ‘The afternoon being 
far declined, the sunshine was almost pensive, and the 
shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were mingled 
in the placid light; as if the spirits of the Day and 
Evening had met in friendship under those trees, and 
found themselves akin. I was admiring the picture, 
when the shape of a young girl emerged from behind 
the clump of oaks. My heart knew her; it was the 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 297 


Vision ; but so distant and ethereal did she seem, so 
unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive glory 
of the spot where she was standing, that my spirit 
sunk within°me, sadder than before. How could I 
ever reach her ? 

While I gazed, a sudden shower came pattering 
down upon the leaves. In a moment the air was full 
of brightness, each rain-drop catching a portion of 
sunlight as it fell, and the whole gentle shower ap- 
pearing like a mist, just substantial enough to bear 
the burthen of radiance. A rainbow, vivid as Niag- 
ara’s, was painted in the air. Its southern limb came 
down before the group of trees, and enveloped the 
fair Vision, as if the hues of Heaven were the only 
garment for her beauty. When the rainbow van- 
ished, she, who had seemed a part of it, was no 
longer there. Was her existence absorbed in na- 
ture’s loveliest phenomenon, and did her pure frame 
dissolve away in the varied light? Yet, I would not 
despair of her return ; for, robed in the rainbow, she 
was the emblem of Hope. 

Thus did the vision leave me; and many a doleful 
day succeeded to the parting moment. By the spring, 
and in the wood, and on the hill, and through the vil- 
lage; at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that 
magic hour of sunset, when she had vanished from 
my sight, I sought her, but in vain. Weeks came 
and went, months rolled away, and she appeared not 
in them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wan- 
dered to-and-fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had 
caught a glimpse of Heaven, and could take no more 


298 THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 


joy on earth. I withdrew into an inner world, where 
my thoughts lived and breathed, and the Vision in 
the midst of them. Without intending it, Iybecame 
at once the author and hero of a romance, conjuring 
up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and 
my own, and experiencing every change of passion, 
till jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, 
had I the burning fancy of my early youth, with man- 
hood’s colder gift, the power of expression, your 
hearts, sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale ! 

In the middle of January, I was summoned home. 
The day before my departure, visiting the spots which 
had been hallowed by the Vision, I found that the 
spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow 
and a glare of winter sunshine, on the hill of the rain- 
bgw. ‘Let me hope,’ thought I, ‘ or my heart will be 
as icy as the fountain, and the whole world as deso- 
late as this snowy hill.’ Most of the day was spent 
in preparing for the journey, which was to commence 
at four o’clock the next morning. About an hour 
after supper, when all was in readiness, I descended 
from my chamber to the sitting-room, to take leave 
of the old clergyman and his family, with whom I 
had been an inmate. A gust of wind blew out my 
lamp as I passed through the entry. 

According to their invariable custom, so pleasant 
a one when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family 
were sitting in the parlor, with no other light than 
what came from the hearth. As the good clergy- 
man’s scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts 
of economy, the foundation of his fires was always 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 299 


a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would 
smoulder away, from morning till night, with a dull 
warmth and no flame. This evening the heap of 
tan was newly put on, and surmounted with three 
sticks of red oak, ‘full of moisture, and a few pieces 
of dry pine, that had not yet kindled. - There was 
no light, except the little that came sullenly from 
two half-burnt brands, without even glimmering on 
the andirons. But I knew the position of the old 
minister’s arm-chair, and also where his wife sat, 
with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his two 
daughters, one a stout country lass, and the other a 
consumptive girl. Groping through the gloom, I 
found my own place next to that of the son, a learned 
collegian, who had come home to keep school in the 
village during the winter vacation. I noticed that 
there was less room than usual, to-night, between the 
collegian’s chair and mine. 

As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a 
word was said for some time after my entrance. No- 
thing broke the stillness but the regular click of the 
matron’s knitting-needles. At times, the fire threw 
out a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the 
old man’s glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our 
circle, but was far too faint to portray the individu- 
als who composed it. Were we uot like ghosts ? 
Dreamy as the scene was, might it not be a type of 
the mode in which departed people, who had known 
and loved each other here, would hold communion in 
eternity? We were aware of each other’s presence, 


300 THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 


not by sight, nor sound, nor touch, but by an inward 
consciousness. Would it not be so among the dead ? 

The silence was interrupted by the consumptive 
daughter, addressing a remark to some one in the 
circle, whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and 
decayed accents were answered by a single word, 
but in a voice that made me start, and bend towards 
the spot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard 
that sweet, low tone? If not, why did it rouse up 
so many old recollections, or mockeries of such, the 
shadows of things familiar, yet unknown, and fill my 
mind with confused images of her features who had 
spoken, though buried in the gloom of the parlor ? 
Whom had my heart recognised, that it throbbed so? 
I listened, to catch her gentle breathing, and strove, 
by the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape 
where none was visible. 

Suddenly, the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up 
with a ruddy glow; and where the darkness had 
been, there was she —the Vision of the Fountain! 
A spirit of radiance only, she had vanished with the 
rainbow, and appeared again in the fire-light, perhaps 
to flicker with the blaze, and be gone. Yet, her 
cheek was rosy and life-like, and her features, in the 
bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and 
tenderer than my recollection of them. She knew 
me! The mirthful expression that had laughed in 
her eyes and dimpled over her countenance, when I 
beheld her faint beauty in the fountain, was laughing 
and dimpling there now. One moment, our glance 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 301 


mingled—the next, down rolled the heap of tan 
upon the kindled wood—and darkness snatched 
away that Daughter of the Light, and gave her back 
to me no more ! 

Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must 
the simple mystery be revealed, then, that Rachel 
was the daughter of the village "Squire, and had left 
home for a boarding-school, the morning after | 
arrived, and returned the day before my departure ? 
If I transformed her to an angel, it is what every 
youthful lover does for his mistress. Therein con- 
sists the essence of my story. But, slight the change, 
sweet maids, to make angels of yourselves ! 


| Be 
lane ea 
; ae 





FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 





FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 


A MORALITY. 


Waat is Guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is 
a point of vast interest, whether the soul may con- 
tract such stains, in all their depth and flagrancy, 
from deeds which may have been plotted and re- 
solved upon, but which, physically, have never had 
existence. Must the fleshly hand, and visible frame 
of man, set its seal to the evil designs of the soul, in 
order to give them their entire validity against the 
sinner? Or, while none but crimes perpetrated are 
cognizable before an earthly tribunal, will guilty 
thoughts — of which guilty deeds are no more than 
shadows — will these draw down the full weight of a 
condemning sentence, in the supreme court of eter- 
nity? In the solitude of a midnight chamber, or in 
a desert, afar from men, or in a church, while the 
body is kneeling, the soul may pollute itself even 
with those crimes, which we are accustomed to 
VOL. I. 20 


306 FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 


deem altogether carnal. If this be true, it is a fear- 
ful truth. 

Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary ex- 
ample. A venerable gentleman, one Mr. Smith, 
who had long been regarded as a pattern of moral 
excellence, was warming his aged blood with a glass 
or two of generous wine. His children being gone © 
forth about their worldly business, and his grand- 
children at school, he sat alone, in a deep, luxurious 
arm-chair, with his feet beneath a richly carved ma- 
hogany table. Some old people have a dread of sol- 
itude, and when better company may not be had, re- 
joice even to hear the quiet breathing of a babe, 
asleep upon the carpet. But Mr. Smith, whose sil- 
ver hair was the bright symbol of a life unstained, 
except by such spots as are inseparable from human 
nature, he had no need of a babe to protect him by 
its purity, nor of a grown person, to stand between 
him and his own soul.. Nevertheless, either Man- 
hood must converse with Age, or Womanhood must 
soothe him with gentle cares, or Infancy must sport 
around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into the 
misty region of the past, and the old man be chill 
and sad. Wine will not always cheer him. Such 
might have been the case with Mr. Smith, when, 
through the brilliant medium of his glass of old Ma- 
deria, he beheld three figures entering the room. 
These were Fancy, who had assumed the garb and 
aspect of an itinerant showman, with a box of pic- 
tures on her back ; and Memory, in the likeness of 
a clerk, with a pen behind her ear, an ink-horn at 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 307 


her button-hole, and a huge manuscript volume be- 
neath her arm ; and lastly, behind the other two, a 
person shrouded in a dusky mantle, which concealed 
both face and form. But Mr. Smith had a shrewd 
idea that it was Conscience. 

How kind of Fancy, Memory, and Conscience, to 
visit the old gentleman, just as he was beginning to 
imagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle, 
nor so excellent a flavor, as when himself and the 
liquor were less aged! Through the dim length of 
the apartment, where crimson curtains muflled the 
glare of sunshine, and created a rich obscurity, the 
three guests drew near the silver-haired old man. 
Memory, with a finger between the leaves of her 
huge volume, placed herself at his right hand. Con- 
science, with her face still hidden in the dusky man- 
tle, took her station on the left, so as to be next his 
heart; while Fancy set down her picture-box upon 
the table, with the magnifying glass convenient to 
his eye. We can sketch merely the outlines of two 
or three, out of the many pictures, which at the pull- 
ing of a string, successively peopled the box with the 
semblances of living scenes. 

One was a moonlight picture ; in the back ground, 
a lowly dwelling; and in front, partly shadowed by 
a tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two 
youthful figures, male and‘female. The young man 
stood with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip, 
and a gleam of triumph in his eye, as he glanced 
downward at the kneeling girl. She was almost 
prostrate at his feet, evidently sinking under a weight 


? 


308 FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 


of shame and anguish, which hardly allowed her to 
lift her clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she 
could not lift. But neither her agony, nor the lovely 
features on which it was depicted, nor the slender 
grace of the form which it convulsed, appeared to 
soften the obduracy of the young man. He was the 
personification of triumphant scorn. Now, strange 
to say, as old Mr. Smith peeped through the magni- 
fying glass, which made the objects start out from 
the canvas with magical deception, he began to 
recognise the farm-house, the tree, and both the 
figures of the picture. The young man, in times 
long past, had often met his gaze within the looking- 
glass ; the girl was the very image of his first love 
— his cottage-love— his Martha Burroughs! Mr. 
Smith was scandalized. ‘Oh, vile and slanderous 
picture!’ he exclaims. ‘ When have I triumphed 
over ruined innocence ? Was not Martha wedded, 
in her teens, to David Tomkins, who won her girlish 
love, and long enjoyed her affection as a wife? And 
ever since his death, she has lived a reputable wi- 
dow!’ Meantime, Memory was turning over the 
leaves of her volume, rustling them to and fro with 
uncertain fingers, until, among the earlier pages, she 
found one which had reference to this picture. She 
reads it, close to the old gentleman’s ear; it is a 
record merely of sinful thought, which never was 
embodied in an act ; but, while Memory is reading, 
Conscience unveils her face, and strikes a dagger to 
the heart of Mr. Smith. Though not a death-blow, 
the torture was extreme. 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 309 


The exhibition proceeded. One after another, Fan- ° 
cy displayed her pictures, all of which appeared to 
have been painted by some malicious artist, on pur- 
pose to vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could 
have been adduced, in any earthly court, that he was 
guilty of the slightest of those sins which were thus 
made to stare him in the face. In one scene, there 
was a table set out, with several bottles, and glasses 
half filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray 
of an expiring lamp. There had been mirth and 
revelry, until the hand of the clock stood just at mid- 
night, when Murder stept between the boon compan- 
ions. A young man had fallen on the floor, and lay 
stone dead, with a ghastly wound crushed into his 
temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled 
rage and horror in his countenance, stood the youth- 
ful likeness of Mr. Smith. The murdered youth 
wore the features of Edward Spencer! ‘ What does 
this rascal of a painter mean?’ cries Mr. Smith, pro- 
voked beyond all patience. ‘Edward Spencer was 
my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as I to him, 
through more than half a century. Neither I, nor 
any other, ever murdered him. Was he not alive 
within five years, and did he not, in token of our long 
friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed cane, and a 
mourning ring?’ Again had Memory been turning 
over her volume, and fixed at length upon so confused. 
a page, that she surely must have scribbled it when 
she was tipsy. The purport was, however, that, while 
Mr. Smith and Edward Spencer were heating their 
young blood with wine, a quarrel had flashed up be- 


310 . FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 


tween them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly wrath, had flung 
a bottle at Spencer’s head. ‘True, it missed its aim, 
and merely smashed a looking-glass; and the next 
morning, when the incident was imperfectly remem- 
bered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. 
Yet, again, while Memory was reading, Conscience 
unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the heart of Mr. 
Smith, and quelled his remonstrance: with her iron 
_ frown. The pain was quite excruciating. 

Some of the pictures had been painted with so 
doubtful a touch, and in colors so faint and pale that 
the subjects could barely be conjectured. A dull, 
semi-transparent mist had been thrown over the sur- 
face of the canvas, into which the figures seemed to 
vanish, while the eye sought most earnestly to fix 
them. But, in every scene, however dubiously por- 
trayed, Mr. Smith was invariably haunted by his own 
lineaments, at various ages, as in a dusty mirror. Af- 
ter poring several minutes over one of these blurred 
and almost indistinguishable pictures, he began to see, 
that the painter had intended to represent him, now 
in the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the 
backs of three half-starved children. ‘ Really, this 
puzzles me!’ quoth Mr. Smith, with the irony of 
conscious rectitude. ‘Asking pardon of: the painter, 
I pronounce him a fool, as well as a scandalous knave. 
A man of my standing in the world, to be robbing 
little children of their clothes! Ridiculous!’ — But 
while he spoke, Memory had searched her fatal volume, 
and found a page, which, with her sad, calm voice, 
she poured into his ear. It was not altogether inap- 


FANCY’s SHOW BOX. 311 


plicable to the misty scene. It told how Mr. Smith 
had been grievously tempted, by many devilish soph- 
istries, on the ground of a legalquibble, to commence 
a lawsuit against three orphan children, joint heirs to 
a considerable estate. Fortunately, before he was 
quite decided, his claims had turned out nearly as de- 
void of law, as justice. As Memory ceased to read, 
Conscience again thrust aside her mantle, and would 
have struck her victim with the envenomed dagger, 
only that he struggled, and clasped his hands before 
his heart. Even then, however, he sustained an ugly 
gash. fre 

Why should we follow Fancy through the whole 
series of those awful pictures? Painted by an artist 
of wondrous power, and terrible acquaintance with 
the secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the 
never-perpetrated sins, that had glided through the 
life-time of Mr. Smith. And could such beings of 
cloudy fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid 
evidence against him, at the day of judgment? Be 
that the case or not, there is reason to believe, that 
one truly penitential tear would have washed away 
each hateful picture, and left the canvas white as 
snow. But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too 
keen to be endured, bellowed aloud, with impatient 
agony, and suddenly discovered that his three guests 
were gone. There he sat alone, a silver-haired and 
highly venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the 
crimsoned-curtained room, with no box of pictures on 
the table, but only a decanter of most excellent Ma- 
deira. Yet his heart still seemed to fester with the 
venom of the dagger. 


312 FANCY’S SHOW Box. 


Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might 
have argued the matter with Conscience, and alleged 
many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so 
pitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should 
be somewhat in the following fashion. A scheme of 
guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a 
train of incidents in a projected tale. The latter, in 
order to produce a sense of reality in the reader’s 
mind, must be conceived with. such proportionate 
strength by the author as to seem, in the glow of 
fancy, more like truth, past, present, or to come, than 
purely fiction. The prospective sinner, on the other 
hand, weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never 
feels a perfect certainty that it will be executed. 
There is a dreaminess diffused about his thoughts ; in 
a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow into 
his victim’s heart, and starts to find an indelible blood- 
stain on his hand. Thus a novel-writer, or a drama- 
tist, in creating a villain of romance, and fitting him 
with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life, in pro- 
jecting crimes that will be perpetrated, may almost 
meet each other, half way between reality and fancy. 
It is not until the crime is accomplished, that guilt 
clenches its gripe upon the guilty heart and claims 
it for its own. Then, and not before, sin is actu- 
ally felt and acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied 
by repentance, grows a thousandfold more viru- 
lent by its self-consciousness. Be it considered, 
also, that men often over-estimate their capacity 
for evil. Ata distance, while its attendant circum- 
stances do not press upon their notice, and its re- 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX. aie 


sults are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. 
They may take the steps which lead to crime, im- 
pelled by the same sort of mental action as in work- 
ing out a mathematical problem, yet be powerless 
with compunction, at the final moment. They knew 
not what deed it was, that they deemed themselves 
resolved to do. In truth, there is no such thing in 
man’s nature, as a settled and full resolve, either for 
good or evil, except at the very moment of execution. 
Let us hope, therefore, that all the dreadful conse- 
quences of sin will not be incurred, unless the act 
have set its seal upon the thought. 

Yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have 
framed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven. 
Man must not disclaim his brotherhood, even with the 
guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart 
has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of 
iniquity. He must feel, that, when he shall knock at 
the gate of Heaven, no semblance of an unspotted 
life can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence 
must kneel, and Mercy come from the footstool of 
the throne, or that golden gate will never open! 







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DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


Tat very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once 
invited four venerable friends to meet him in his 
study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen, 
Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gas- 
coigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name 
was the widow Wycherly. They were all melan- 
choly old creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, 
and whose greatest misfortune it was, that they were 
not long ago in their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the 
vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, 
but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was 
now little better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew 
had wasted his best years, and his health and sub- 
stance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had 
given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and 
divers other torments of soul and body. Mr. Gas- 
coigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil fame, or 
at least had been so, till time had buried him from 


318 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


the knowledge of the present generation, and made 
him obscure instead of infamous. As for the Widow 
Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a great beauty 
in her day ; but, for a long while past, she had lived 
in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous 
stories, which had prejudiced the gentry of the town 
against her. It is a circumstance worth mentioning, 
that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, 
Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early 
lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and had once been 
on the point of cutting each other’s throats for her 
sake. And, before proceeding farther, I will merely 
hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were 
sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves ; as 
is not unfrequently the case with old people, when 
worried either by present troubles or woful recollec- 
tions. ) 

‘ My dear old friends,’ said Dr. Heidegger, motion- 
ing them to be seated, ‘1 am desirous of your assist- 
ance in one of those little experiments with which I 
amuse myself here in my study.’ 

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger’s study must 
have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old- 
fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and be- 
sprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood 
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which 
were filled with rows of gigantic folios, and black- 
letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment 
covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was 
a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according 
to some authorities Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 319 


hold consultations, in all difficult cases of his practice. 
In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and 
narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which 
doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the 
bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high 
and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among 
many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was 
fabled that the spirits of all the doctor’s deceased pa- 
tients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in 
the face whenever he looked thitherward. The op- 
posite side of the chamber was ornamented with the 
full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the 
faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and 
with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a 
century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of 
marriage with this young lady ; but, being affected 
with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of 
her lover’s prescriptions, and died on. the bridal eve- 
ning. ‘The greatest curiosity of the study remains to 
be mentioned ; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound 
in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There 
were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the 
title of the book. But it was well known to be a book 
of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted 
it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had 
rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had 
stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly 
faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the 
_ brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, sind said — 
‘Forbear !” 

Such was Dr.’Heidegger’s study. On the summer 


320 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


afternoon of our tale, a small round table, as black as 
ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a 
cut-glass vase, of beautiful form and elaborate work- 
manship. The sunshine came through the window, 
between the heavy festoons of two faded damask cur- 
tains, and fell directly across this vase ; so that a mild 
splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages 
of the five old people who sat around. Four cham- 
paigne glasses were also on the table. 

‘My dear old friends,’ repeated Dr. Heidegger, 
‘may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceed- 
ingly curious experiment ? ’ 

Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentle- 
man, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for 
a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to 
my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back 
to mine own veracious self; and if any passages of 
the present tale should startle the reader’s faith, I must 
be content to bear the stigma of a fiction-monger. 

When the doctor’s four guests heard him talk of his 
proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more 
wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump, 
or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or 
some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly 
in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without 
waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the 
chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, 
bound in black leather, which common report affirmed 
to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he 
opened the volume, and took from among its black- | 
letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 321 


now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed 
one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed 
ready to crumble to dust in the doctor’s hands. 

* This rose,’ said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, ¢ this 
same withered and:crumbling flower, blossomed five- 
and-fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, 
_ whose portrait hangs yonder ; and I meant to wear it 
in my bosom at our eae Five-and-fifty years it 
has been treasured Dean the leaves of this old 
volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this 
rose of half a century could ever bloom again ?’ 

* Nonsense !” said the Widow Wycherly, with a 
peevish toss of her head. ‘ You might as well ask 
whether an old woman’s wrinkled face could ever 
bloom again.’ 

‘See!’ answered Dr. Heidegger. 

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose 
into the water which it contained. At first, it lay 
lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe 
none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular 
change began to be visible. The crushed and dried 
petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crim- 
son, as if the flower were reviving from a death-like 
slumber ; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage be- 
came green ; and there was the rose of half a cen- 
tury, looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first 
given it to her lover. It was scarcely full-blown ; for 
some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around 
its moist bosom, within which two or three dew-drops 
were sparkling. 

‘ That is certainly a very pretty deception,’ said the 

VOL. I. 21 


3822 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


doctor’s friends; carelessly, however, for they had 
witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer’s show : * pray 
how was it effected ?’ 

‘ Did you never hear of the ** Fountain of Youth? ”’ 
asked Dr. Heidegger, ‘ which Ponce De Leon, the 
Spanish adventurer, went in ——— of, two or three 
centuries ago?’ 

‘But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?’ said the 
Widow Wycherly. 

‘No,’ answered Dr. Heidegger, ‘for he never 
sought it in the right place. ‘The famous Fountain of 
Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the 
southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from 
Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several 
gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centu- 
ries old, have been kept as fresh as violets, by the 
virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of 
mine, knowing my curiosity in such maters, has sent 
me what you see in the vase.’ 

‘Ahem !” said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not 
a word of the doctor’s story : ‘and what may be the 
effect of this fluid on the human frame ?’ 

‘You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,’ re- 
plied Dr. Heidegger; ‘and all of you, my respected 
friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable 
fluid, as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For 
my own part, having had much trouble in grow- 
ing old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With 
your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the 
progress of the experiment.’ 

While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 323 


four champaigne glasses with the water of the Foun- 
tain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated -with 
an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually 
ascending from the depths of the glasses, and burst- 
ing in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor 
diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted 
not that it possessed cordial and comfortable proper- 
ties ; and, though utter skeptics as to its rejuvenescent 
power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But 
Dr. Heidegger besought them to stay a moment. 

Before you drink, my respectable old friends,’ said 
he, ‘it would be well that, with the experience of a 
life-time to direct you, you should draw up a few 
general rules for you guidance, in passing a second 
time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin 
and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advan- 
tages, you should not become patterns of virtue and 
wisdom to all the young people of the age!’ 

The doctor’s four venerable friends made him no 
answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so 
very ridiculous was the idea, that, knowing how 
closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, 
they should ever go astray again. 

‘Drink, then,’ said the doctor, bowing: ‘I rejoice 
that I have so well selected the subjects of my ex- 
periment.’ 

With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their 
lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues 
as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been 
bestowed on four human beings who needed it more 


wofully. They looked as if they had never known 


324 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring 
of Nature’s dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, 
sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping 
round the doctor’s table, without life enough in their 
souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect 
of growing young again. ‘They drank off the water, 
and replaced their glasses on the table. 

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improve- 
ment in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might 
have been produced by a glass of generous wine, 
together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, 
brightening over all their visages at once. ‘There was 
a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the 
ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. 
They gazed at one another, and fancied that some 
magic- power had really begun to smooth away the 
deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had 
been so long engraving on their brows. ‘The Widow 
Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a 
woman again. 

‘Give us more of this wondrous water!” cried they, 
eagerly. ‘We are younger— but we are still too 
old! Quick— give us more!’ 

‘Patience, patience!’ quoth Dr. Heidegger, who 
sat watching the experiment, with philosophic cool- 
ness. ‘You have been a long time growing old. 
Surely, you might be content to grow young in half 
an hour! But the water is at your service.’ 

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of 
youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to 
turn half the old people in the city to the age of their 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 925 


own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet 
sparkling on the brim, the doctor’s four guests 
snatched their glasses from the table, and swallowed 
the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion! 
Even while’ the draught was passing down their 
throats, it seemed to have wrought a change on their 
whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and bright; 
a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks ; 
they sat around the table, three gentlemen, of middle 
age, and a woman, hardly beyond her buxom prime. 

‘My dear widow, you are charming!’ cried Colo- 
nel Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her 
face, while the shadows of age were flitting from it 
like darkness from the crimson daybreak. 

The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killi- 
grew’s compliments were not always measured by 
sober truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, 
still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman 
would meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentle- 
men behaved in such a manner, as proved that the 
water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some in- 
toxicating qualities ; unless, indeed, their exhilaration 
of spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused 
by the sudden removal of the weight of years. Mr. 
Gascoigne’s mind seemed to run on political topics, 
but whether relating to the past, present, or future, 
could not easily be determined, since the same ideas 
and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years... 
Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about 
patriotism, national glory, and the people's right ; now 


he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly and 
21* 


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> 


326 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own 
conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now, 
again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply 
deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening to 
his well-turned periods. Colonel Killigrew all this 
time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle-song, and 
ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while 
his eyes wandered toward the buxom figure of the 
Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the table, 
Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dol- 
lars and cents, with which was strangely intermingled 
a project for supplying the East Indies with ice, by 
harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs. 

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the 
mirror curtseying and simpering to her own image, 
and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better 
than all the world beside. She thrust her face close 
to the glass, to see whether some long-remembered 
wrinkle or crow’s-foot had indeed vanished. She ex- 
amined whether the snow had so entirely melted from 
her hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown 
aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with 
a sort of dancing step to the table. 

‘My dear old doctor,’ cried she, ‘ pray favor me 
with another glass !” 

‘Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!’ replied 
the complaisant doctor ; ‘see! I have already filled 
the glasses.’ : : 

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of 
this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as 
it effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremu- 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 827 


lous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sun- 
set, that the chamber had grown duskier than ever ; 
but a mild and moon-like splendor gleamed from 
within the vase, and rested alike on the four guests, 
and on the doctor’s venerable figure. He sat in a 
high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, 
with a gray dignity of aspect that might have well be- 
fitted that very Father Time, whose power had never 
been disputed, save by this fortunate company. Even 
while quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of 
Youth, they were almost awed by the expression of 
his mysterious visage. 

But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of 
young life shot through their veins. They were now 
in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its misera- 
ble train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was re- 
membered only as the trouble of a dream, from which 
they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the 
soul, so early lost, and without which the world’s 
successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded 
pictures, again threw its enchantment over all their 
prospects. ‘They felt like new-created beings, in a 
new-created universe. 

‘ We are young! We are young!” they cried ex- 
ultingly. 

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the 
strongly marked characteristics of middle life, and 
mutually assimilated them all. They were a group 
of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the ex- 
uberant frolicksomeness of their years. The most 
singular effect of their gaiety was an impulse to mock 


328 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so 
lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at 
their old-fashioned attire, the wide-skirted coats and 
flapped waistcoats of the young men, and the ancient 
cap and gown of the blooming girl. One limped 
across the floor, like a gouty grandfather ; one set a 
pair of spectacles astride of his nose and pretended to 
pore over the blackletter pages of the book of magic ; 
a third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to 
imitate the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then 
all shouted mirthfully, and leaped about the room. 
The Widow Wycherly —if so fresh a damsel could 
be called a widow — tripped up to the doctor’s chair, 
with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face. 

‘Doctor, you dear old soul,’ cried she, ‘ get up and 
dance with me!’ And then the four young people 
laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer fig- 
ure the poor old doctor would cut. 

‘Pray excuse me,’ answered the doctor quietly. 
‘T am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were 
over long ago. But either of these gay young gen- 
tlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner.’ 

‘Dance with me, Clara!’ cried Colonel Killigrew. 

‘No, no, I will be her partner!’ shouted Mr. Gas- 
coigne. 

‘She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!” ex- 
claimed Mr. Medbourne. | 

They all gathered round her. One caught both 
her hands in his passionate grasp — another threw his 
arm about her waist — the third buried his hand among 
the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow’s 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 329 


cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, 
her warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, 
she strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in 
their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier pic- 
ture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty 
for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to 
the duskiness of the chamber, and the antique dresses 
which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have 
reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered 
grandsires, ridiculously contending for the skinny ug- 
liness of a shriveled grandam. 

But they were young: their burning passions 
proved them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquet- 
ry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite 
withheld her favors, the three rivals-began to inter- 
change threatening glances. Still keeping hold of 
the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one another’s 
throats. As they struggled to and fro, the table was 
overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand frag- 
ments. ‘The precious Water of Youth flowed in a 
bright stream across the floor, moistening the wings 
of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline of 
summer, had alighted there to die. The insect flut- 
tered lightly through the chamber, and settled on the 
snowy head of Dr. Heidegger. 

‘Come, come, gentlemen!—come, Madam Wy- 
cherly,’ exclaimed the doctor, ‘I really must protest 
against this riot.’ 

They stood still, and shivered ; for it seemed as if 
gray ‘Time were calling them back from their sunny 
youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of 


330 DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 


years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat 
in his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a 
century, which he had rescued from among the frag- 
ments of the shattered vase. At the motion of his 
hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more 
readily, because their violent exertions had wearied 
them, youthful though they were. 

‘ My poor Sylvia’s rose!’ ejaculated Dr. Heideg- 
ger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds: ‘ it 
appears to be fading again.’ 

And so it was. Even while the party were look- 
ing at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it be- 
came as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first 
thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops 
of moisture which clung to its petals. 

‘T love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness,’ 
observed he, pressing the withered rose to his with- 
ered lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered 
down from the doctor’s snowy head, and fell upon the 
floor. 

His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, 
whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was 
creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at 
one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment 
snatched away a charm, and left a deepening furrow 
where none had been before. Was it an illusion? 
Had the changes of a life-time been crowded into so 
brief a space, and were they now four aged people, 
sitting with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger ? 

‘Are we grown old again, so soon!’ cried they, 
dolefully. 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 331 


In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed 
merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. 
The delirium which it created had effervesced away. 
Yes! they were old again. With a shuddering im- 
pulse, that showed her a woman still, the widow 
clasped her skinny hands before her face, and wished 
that the coffin-lid were over it, since it could be no 
longer beautiful. 

‘ Yes, friends, ye are old again,’ said Dr. Heideg- 
ger; ‘and Jo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on 
the ground. Well—I bemoan it not; for if the 
fountain gushed at my very door-step, I would not 
stoop to bathe my lips in it — no, though its delirium 
were for years instead of moments. Such is the les- 
son ye have taught me !’ 

But the doctor’s four friends had taught no such 
lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to 
make a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, 
neon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth. 


END OF VOL. I. 














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